


Pais e Santos (Fathers and Saints)

by VitaeLampada



Series: Soul Possessions [7]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Absent Parents, Babysitting, Broody Hikaru Sulu, Endangered culture, Is Someone Else Broody?, Multi, New Starfleet Headquarters, New Vulcan, Parenthood, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Pre-Star Trek Beyond, Single Parents, Step-parents, Step-siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25016161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VitaeLampada/pseuds/VitaeLampada
Summary: This story is set during "Star Trek - Into Darkness".  It begins a few weeks after the capture of John Harrison and some months before the Enterprise is ready for its first five-year mission.The destruction suffered in San Francisco means the city is not a viable location for Starfleet Headquarters.  Operations move to the South American base in São José dos Campos.  The Enterprise crew stay there to receive temporary assignments while the Enterprise is rebuilt.Everyone (except Spock and Nyota) gets the assignment they choose.  The interesting part is that regardless, everyone ends up somewhere they never expected to be.  The surprises are mostly humorous, some poignant.  The story also reconnects us with Spock Prime and Christine Chapel.I owe a big debt of gratitude to Cacaudreamgirl for a) the inspiration to set this story in Brazil and b) the proof reading she has done to make sure I don't make terrible mistakes with Portuguese or cultural details.
Relationships: Ben Sulu/Hikaru Sulu, James T. Kirk & Carol Marcus, Sarek & Original Character, Spock Prime & Christine Chapel - Relationship, Spock/Nyota Uhura
Series: Soul Possessions [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/555232
Comments: 18
Kudos: 19
Collections: Spock and Nyota on AO3, Spock and Uhura Archive





	1. São José dos Campos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will contain more than the usual amount of vocabulary: Portuguese and Vulcan just for starters. I thought it would be better not to publish a glossary here but at the end of the chapter, so that you don't have to scroll down for ages just to get on with reading.

_"Passengers with ticket designation ‘A’ -- please remain in your seats until the shuttlecraft is empty. If you have requested the assistance of a crew member to disembark, they will report to you shortly."_

Christine expected a complaint. Softly spoken, and scrupulously courteous, which could be worse than rude sometimes. Fortunately, she was thick-skinned. 

And the view through the shuttle window would make anything bearable.

Earth!! 

It did not matter that Christine had never been anywhere south of the equator. She was so starved of Terran normality she was going to count this place as home.

How would she describe São José dos Campos, if she was asked? In twilight, with the golden glow of street light and illuminations of countless towers in the centre, the city looked like a pendant set against blue-black velvet. A romantic notion, probably unrealistic, but after months spent in the modest capital (yea, the only settlement) on New Vulcan (population 9,142) she was easily entranced. 

Beside her, there was a sound of someone shifting in his seat. 

“Doctor …,” 

Always ‘Doctor’ when he was not happy. Christine dreamt once that she went through the singularity and found herself in Ambassador Spock’s timeline. By a stroke of good fortune, the kind which only happens in dreams, she was beamed aboard the Enterprise. His Enterprise. She met Captain Kirk, Lieutenant Uhura, Sulu and Chekov. She went to Med Bay, naturally, but before she could so much as say hello to Leonard McCoy he hollered out. 

“If that god damned son of a Vulcan is getting on your nerves, don’t come here expecting advice!” 

He didn’t mean it. He told her Spock made a difficult patient at the best of times, and if his mood got worse you could be sure his symptoms had too. 

Christine smiled to herself, turned away from the window. 

“Yes, Ambassador Spock,” she said. “What seems to be the problem?” 

“I did express my opinion, at the time you booked this shuttle flight, that designation A status would not be necessary.” 

“You did,” she said. “We had a lengthy discussion, as I recall.” 

“And now that we have docked, I submit again that I will not require assistance to walk from here to the arrivals hub.” 

“I agree,” Christine said. “That distance is about the same as your routine exercise, walking to the market square and back. You have no trouble with that on good days.” 

“Then I suggest we leave the vessel now.” 

“ _Except_ \--,” she continued, “there have been changes since you and I were last on Earth. Because of John Harrison’s attacks, Starfleet security require all passengers to divert through checkpoints and undergo biometric scanning. They want to be certain none of Harrison’s people may have been revived and remain at large. Citizens of New Vulcan are also required to report to a consular desk –- I'm not sure where we will find that -- and register details of their stay so they may be contacted at all times. Am I boring you yet?” 

He gave her a wonderful, contemptuous look, which made it impossible to resist going on. 

“Once we get through all that, and reach the arrivals hub, a taxi can save us the walk to Starfleet Headquarters. Vice Admiral Nascimento has an office on the fourth floor, so don’t forget to factor in the distance you would walk from the taxi to the elevator, and from the elevator to that office. Oh, and then the return journey.” 

“Thank you, Doctor. I believe you have made --,” 

Christine talked over him. “What we cannot estimate is the amount of walking after that. I don’t know where the Enterprise crew have quarters, whether we will meet them somewhere else --,” 

“Doctor --,” 

“-- and who knows what may happen after we meet? Perhaps dinner at a restaurant. They'll know that our diet has been pretty basic, not to mention our surroundings. And we haven’t considered how we will get to our assigned quarters, unpack, change clothes --,” 

“-- you have made sufficient case for the defence, Christine.” 

Ah, there. She became Christine again. And her patient became her friend, lost his condescending tone of voice and took a deep breath in and out which showed how little spare energy he had for arguments. 

“Don’t judge the person you are against the one you were,” she told him. “The present Spock is not a failure, only different. And just as worthy of life.” 

“Words of a well-trained Starfleet medical officer,” Spock muttered. 

“An experienced officer, who could be treating dozens of patients right now, yet confines herself to one. Funny, why she would choose that. Perhaps she is … I don’t know … _fond_ of this grumpy --,” 

“--I find the descriptor ‘grumpy’ somewhat harsh --,” 

“Grumpy and yet _companionable_ half-Vulcan. You see, if we hire a hoverchair now, we can go anywhere. I noticed you were reading the visitors' guide during our flight. Is there something you want to see while we are in São José?” 

Successful distraction. Spock activated his PADD and showed her the page he last had open. 

“I did review the list of recommended attractions. From there I learned the origin of the city’s name, and decided to familiarise myself with the Christian saint named Joseph.” 

“Father of Jesus Joseph?” 

“Surrogate father, if I read the biography correctly.” 

“Huh …,” Christine leaned back in her seat. “I love a good coincidence,” she said. 

“You are referring to the purpose for our visit, and how the subject of fathers and surrogate fathers pertains.” 

“Precisely.” 

* * *

Tuesday and Friday evenings began with the sounds of _berimbau_ , _atabaque_ and dry slaps of bare feet against rubber floor tiles. And the songs – Nyota could sing along with the musicians now. That would be her only participation, if Hikaru didn’t show up soon. 

He wasn’t in the lobby. Renaldo on reception said he would page her if he saw Sulu enter the sports centre. He wasn’t in the pool or the squash courts or the weight rooms. Spock had searched the changing area. 

Nyota let her eyes run along the rows of bleacher seating on the other side of the _capoeira_ arena. She didn’t expect to see Hikaru but maybe Ben, who often came to watch. “There is nothing like the sight of my beloved, shirtless and panting,” he once told her. 

_Amen to that, Mr. Song._

It was precisely the reason she chose to sit in the bleachers on this side, closest to the blue quadrant where Spock and Pavel practised. Though she admitted that, on the odd occasion, she was moved to divert her attention from the man she loved and admire Ensign Chekov. 

Others might have been daunted, if they were paired up with the Commander. Spock was stronger, had greater stamina, and was already a champion amateur in the Vulcan martial art of _suus mahna_. The strain showed whenever the two men performed an extended routine. Blotches would appear on Pavel’s slender back; his jaw would set so tight it looked like he might burst a blood vessel. 

But if he made a mistake, lost timing or footing, he would ask the Commander to let him try again, and again and again. Spock always complied. In this way, they were perfectly matched. 

A tap on her shoulder made her jump. 

“Whoa, _desculpa! Te assustei?_ ” 

Vice Admiral Elizabete Nascimento stepped back, lifted hands up to augment the apology. 

“ _Tudo bem,_ ” Nyota replied. “My mind was far, far away.” 

“Far from this?” Nascimento gestured at Spock, who did side stretches to stay warm while Chekov took water. 

Instead of answering, Nyota imitated the sound of the drums. The Vice Admiral burst out laughing and dropped down on the bench beside her. 

“Well good,” Elizabete said. “I wouldn’t want to hear the spark had gone, you know?” 

Spock switched his warm up to slow _ginga_ shifts as Chekov started doing stretches, preparing himself to join in. 

“I thought I’d find Lieutenant Sulu here,” Elizabete said. 

“You’re looking for him too?” Nyota asked. 

“Yeah, we had a meeting booked, but he didn’t make it. His name has been put forward for three different temporary assignments, you know, and we gotta look hard at the details and choose the best one.” 

“If he did not show for you, that confirms my suspicions.” 

“Tell me.” 

“When Hikaru misses appointments, the problem is emotional.” 

“ _Nossa!_ Now I worry my programme isn’t working.” 

“No no, Admiral, I don’t think it will be anything you could have prevented.” 

“Any idea what it might be?” 

Nyota shook her head. Spock and Pavel were moving in tandem now. 

“But I want you to know that your programme probably saved us,” she added. “Seriously.” 

In the aftermath of their battle against Admiral Marcus and Khan, the Enterprise crew lost connection and focus. Dozens of their own people had died in deep space, and could not be properly mourned. Hundreds more innocent students and civilians were cruelly buried somewhere under the San Francisco wreckage. The city could not begin to rebuild until all those bodies were found. 

Starfleet commenced disaster recovery procedures. All Headquarters operations were diverted with immediate effect to the South American base. The crew received orders by memo. They boarded shuttlecrafts that flew them to São José dos Campos, unpacked luggage in assigned quarters. But nobody felt they were being led. No one knew whether Captain Kirk would fully recover or be able to resume command. And Spock – Spock needed time as well. 

Then Vice-Admiral Elizabete Nascimento took the helm. All Enterprise personnel were summoned to an assembly in the same lecture theatre. After that, one-to-one sessions were booked into everyone’s diary, no matter how junior their rank. Gradually, they all got a hit of that expansive, effervescent personality that could be sad with them but never brought down. And they got schedules – _nossa!_ \-- the first Portuguese Nyota spoke spontaneously was to express amazement after reading hers. 

Monday 11:00, Rueda Dining Complex – Salad bar preparation with Crewman Rashida Salah (Third Class) and Medical Ensign Zana Brlek (She had seen their names on staff lists, but never met them). 

Wednesday 20:00, Quarters – ordered to write a description (five hundred words) of where she was and what duties she carried out (or could not carry out) while the Enterprise lost power and fell to Earth. All essays were published in a single document and assigned as required reading. 

And on Tuesdays and Fridays, _capoeira_ lessons for the senior officers, followed by communal dinner. 

“This especially,” Nyota gestured to the occupied quadrants in the arena. Leonard McCoy and Scotty did well just to keep their _roles_ in sync, not collide with each other. Jim Kirk and Carol Marcus got on better – able to include _bença_ and _negativa de fundo_ in their routine. 

“ _Capoeira_ gave us a reason to get eye to eye again. And be beginners. It felt good to get frustrated and exhausted in a safe way, and let bad energy out. Thank you, sir.” 

“You’re welcome,” Nascimento replied. “We’ll give Hikaru time. Too bad for you, though. You won’t get to show off your skills to our guests.” 

* * *

_“Pessoal, aqui!_ ” Elizabete marched down the middle of the arena, shouting and clapping hands until the musicians stopped playing. Spock completed a tumble, stood up and glanced at Nyota questioningly. She shrugged. 

“Gotta surprise for you tonight,” the Vice-Admiral announced. “Later on it will be your turn to give a warm welcome to some visitors to São José – some friends you have not seen in a while.” 

Nyota’s mind switched focus. The sound of Elizabete’s voice, for several seconds, became just sound. It didn't take a lot of work to narrow down the possible identity of the 'friends'. Virtually all Starfleet and Academy personnel had transferred here already. And in her spare time, Nyota monitored communications traffic, anything she had security clearance to see, to keep in practice. She knew there was an important event about to happen in the city. 

“They are going to watch your routines,” she heard the Admiral speaking again. “So we want to see your best efforts. That’s an order!” 

On cue, the arena entrance opened and four people came inside. Nyota frowned; she did not recognise any of them. No one else, as far as she could tell, seemed perturbed by the arrival of strangers. Elizabete met them, shook their hands, escorted them to the bleachers where Nyota sat and introduced her. 

“Lost her dancing partner,” Nascimento explained, and one of the guests managed a dry smile. “Lieutenant Uhura, this is Admiral Ricardo Silva, my superior, and representatives from _Legião da Boa Vontade_.” 

* * *

Afterwards, Nyota went down to the lobby. She chose a table near windows, where she could see the athletics track, and waited while the others showered and changed. 

Spock arrived first, of course. He took the seat across from her and remarked, “You had greater opportunity to become acquainted with Admiral Silva and his party.” 

“True,” she replied, “but they were not talkative. I could only coax a few words from one of the LBV reps.” 

“What is your opinion of their proposal?” 

_Legião da Boa Vontade_ was an organisation committed to many things. Their school, situated in Starfleet’s property, enrolled students who were victims of trauma. 

“Interesting,” Nyota said. “It would definitely benefit their students.” 

“By your choice of words, I sense you have misgivings.” 

“There will be enough interested people from the crew to make up their quota. But they chose to talk to us, which means they probably want at least one senior officer.” 

“I concur.” 

“It wouldn’t be my first choice for temporary assignment. I didn’t think it would be yours, either.” 

“Agreed.” 

Nyota breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Glad that’s settled. Now tell me, did I misunderstand or did I miss something Nascimento said? I thought we were meeting people we knew.” 

“The Vice-Admiral indicated that the ‘friends we have not seen in a while’ would join us for dinner. And I believe they may have arrived.” 

Nyota turned her head to look in the same direction as Spock. Renaldo on reception was greeting a visitor who had arrived in the lobby by hoverchair. 

* * *

“Well I’ll be danged --,” 

Len picked up his pace, left Jim and Carol behind, jogged across the lobby carpet. Doctor Chapel saw him coming, saw his outstretched hand but didn’t use it. She grabbed his arm at the elbow and hauled him in for a bear hug. 

“Wow,” he gasped, as she thumped him on the back. “Glad we’re not enemies.” 

“McCoy, give me a break,” she said. “You know where I’ve been the last seven months.” 

“Touch starved?” 

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” 

* * *

“I can’t wait to tell them,” Carol said. “The captain of the USS Enterprise. They will not believe their luck!” 

“Uh, Doctor Marcus," Jim replied, "I believe it was you who once told me I had a reputation. Are you sure I would make a good mentor?” 

So excited, she forgot for a second and touched Jim Kirk’s arm. It was a move she would never have made, not before now. 

“You’ll be wonderful. Your sense of fun, your devil-may-care spirit --,” 

Carol stopped herself, realising that she was describing a different James T Kirk, the one who had died. Also the one she would not have trusted with young, impressionable minds. 

“Just ... don’t set their expectations high,” Jim said. “I’ve never done anything like this.” 

“Oh look,” she said, deftly changing the subject, “are those the people joining us for dinner?” 

Occasionally Carol fell back into her old opinion of Captain Kirk, wondered whether his ultimate sacrifice to save the Enterprise was really just his biggest bid for self-promotion. Sounded cynical, didn’t it? And yet it was confusing, since he was still his own man, still had that charm and sharp mind. Was his change of character real, or was he faking it? 

Mostly she believed it was genuine. When they approached the rest of the senior officers, gathered near reception, Jim didn’t assert the privilege of rank and push his way into the middle. He remained quiet at the margins, just watching the conversation groups: Doctor McCoy and Ensign Chekov talking with the Medical Officer while Commander Spock, Lieutenant Uhura and Scotty spoke to her patient. 

She admired the captain for holding back. And yet the Vice Admiral had said these new arrivals were old friends. Death had not turned Jim Kirk into a sociophobe. The group would be expecting his enthusiastic interruption for handshakes and pleasantries. That would not be rude. 

Carol’s suspicions grew when Uhura glanced up and noticed the two of them. To catch the eye of the Chief Comms Officer did not mean much; Uhura was trained to be observant. But for Kirk to remain under the Lieutenant's scrutiny, and for her expression to clearly convey how disconcerted she was by what she saw …, 

Finally Uhura called out, “Captain?” 

And all conversation stopped.

The one visitor, the female Medical Officer, smiled at Kirk, but that did not last long. She noticed something was not right, and soon looked as uneasy as the Lieutenant. The doctor's patient used the controls on the armrest of his hoverchair to turn himself slowly. He was an elderly Vulcan. Once he was facing the captain, the already uncomfortable silence continued. 

“Jim …,”

The Vulcan spoke cautiously, as though calling Kirk by his first name was risky. 

“Huh?"

Then Jim shook his head, as if to clear it.

"Sorry everybody," he said, "blood sugar must be getting low -- I seem to have forgotten my manners. I should introduce Doctor Carol Marcus, our new Science Officer, to the visitors. Carol, this is Doctor Christine Chapel and Ambassador Spock of New Vulcan."

Now Lieutenant Uhura looked completely baffled. Carol watched her reach out and rest her hand on the Ambassador's shoulder, as if to comfort him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portuguese terms used in this chapter: 
> 
> desculpa! Te assustei? - Sorry, did I startle you?  
> Tudo bem – not at all, no problem  
> Nossa! - Literally, it is just the ‘our’ part of ‘Our Lady’. Used as an expression of surprise, dismay, amazement.  
> Ginga, roles, bença and negativa de fundo - capoeira moves  
> berimbau, atabaque – traditional instruments for playing capoeira music  
> Pessoal, aqui! - Attention, everyone!  
> Legião da Boa Vontade - Legion of Good Will


	2. Changed Faces

“Wanna talk about it?” Len asked. 

Streetlight, from the hovertaxi window, washed over Jim’s face as the car turned, and made him look jaundiced. He already looked lost. 

“Hmm?” Jim said. 

“Before we get to dinner.” 

“Before we get to dinner what?” 

“You --,” 

McCoy stopped himself, took a second to reconsider. He’d assumed Jim was quiet because of what happened in the sports centre lobby. And yet, come to think of it, that strange encounter had not actually changed anything. Kirk wore the same expression now as he had been wearing a lot these days. Not the savvy half-smile with cheeky, twinkling eyes -- that should have been trademarked James Tiberious years ago. Since his recovery, it was more typical to see Jim with a straight lip line and eyes like a child, eyes that seemed to be seeing for the first time. 

Len tried again. “Did you … notice how everyone reacted after you introduced Carol?” 

It was almost funny to watch him work it out. 

“Yeah …,” Jim said. “Yeah, I guess. Well, not exactly. Not until Uhura asked if I was okay.” 

“I bet she did. You do ... _remember_ … Ambassador Spock, right?” 

“Yup.” 

“Yup?” 

“Was that the wrong thing to say?” 

“How much do you remember?” 

Jim’s look was wary. 

“Uh … he came through the singularity created in his timeline by red matter. We met on Delta Vega; he gave Scotty a trans-warp equation that got us back on board the Enterprise.” 

After several seconds of silence, Len said, “Go on.” 

“Oh … uh, okay. He, uh, he located the planet that became New Vulcan. How am I doing?” 

“Not bad,” McCoy lied. “I was hoping to hear you tell me more about you and him.” 

“ _Me_ and him?” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Jim screwed up all the muscles in his face, trying. 

“Was there a lot?” he asked finally. 

“Enough,” Len said. 

“You did wonder if I would lose memory,” Jim replied, “coming back from the dead.” 

“And I stopped wondering after you aced all the tests Starfleet set. But what they didn’t examine was your emotional memory. You’ve given me facts about Ambassador Spock, but nothing that tells me what he meant to you.” 

“... meant …?” 

“The two of you had a psi bond. Made you a bit obsessed, though not with yourself, so that was a nice change.” 

Jim turned away. He stared out the hovertaxi window for a while before he said, “I was a pain in the ass, wasn’t I?” 

“Oh, so you remember that --,” 

“I do,” Jim interrupted. “I was cocky and arrogant. Thought I could have everything on my terms, do anything I chose and never pay the consequences. I was as bad as John Harrison.” 

“Whoa, whoa …,” 

“No, seriously. Imagine what I’d have been like, if I had his intelligence and his strength, combined with my personality. Hmm?” 

The taxi was making its last turn before the restaurant. This line of conversation was not going to work over communal dinner. 

“You’d have put me in cryogenic storage,” Jim said. 

“You weren’t that bad,” Len retorted. 

“Bad enough. Think of the crew we lost when the Vengeance fired on us. That happened because of me.” 

“Well, it --,” 

“-- it happened because I wouldn’t listen to Scotty, wouldn’t listen to Spock and even you were trying to tell me I was way beyond Mr. Sensible.” 

“Everyone in a starship crew knows the risks that go with the job.” 

“Not the point, Bones.” 

“Then what is the point?” 

Their taxi was slowing down. Through his window, Len could see one version of Spock holding open the restaurant door so that the other one could drive his hoverchair inside. 

“The point is that people who were better than me died,” Jim said. “And they aren’t getting a second chance at life.” 

“ _Aqui está!_ ” Their driver’s announcement came through speakers from the cockpit. 

“ _Obrigado_ ,” Len replied. Then he sighed. “We’ll need to finish this discussion another time.” 

* * *

Carol took a sip of water as often as she felt stuck for words. Her glass was empty, and they were still waiting for menus. 

She watched Admiral Ricardo Silva. His eyes swept round their table, regarded the three places occupied by the representatives from _Legião da Boa Vontade_ , and the remaining empty seats that waited for the chosen officers from the Enterprise crew. 

“Doctor Marcus,” he said at last, “you probably think it strange that _Legião_ people are so subdued. But it’s their training. They listen more than they talk.” 

“Not a problem,” Carol replied. “My qualification is applied physics. You don’t meet many talkative types in grad school.” 

She didn’t expect expressions of amusement and didn’t get any. 

“What surprised me,” she went on, “was the reaction to my announcement. Yasmin, I thought you might be more pleased to learn that Captain Kirk has volunteered for your project.” 

Yasmin de Freitas, the senior _Legião_ representative, leaned forward and spoke in her characteristic way, measured. 

“Your Captain is very welcome. How may we persuade your Chief Medical Officer?” 

* * *

Nyota knew something was up. Nascimento took charge of who got inside which hovertaxi. Elizabete had never supervised that before, or stipulated which car would leave the sports centre first. 

The Vice Admiral put herself, Nyota, Doctor Chapel and both Spocks into the second cab. They went to their usual restaurant, but not their usual table. Elizabete led them upstairs. The Ambassador was able to demonstrate how precisely he could control the thrusters on his chair and navigate corners, while Christine made sure they knew the mobility aid had been her idea. 

Their table was tucked away in a corner. A waiter approached with menus as soon as they sat down, offered to duplicate Spock’s vegetable _feijoada_ for the Ambassador. There wasn’t the usual relaxed pace to proceedings; food came too quickly. And Nascimento, by far the master of easy banter, seemed to be holding back. 

Nyota decided to unsettle things. While reaching for the shared bowl of _chimichurri_ , she kept her voice casual but chose to speak Arcturian, a language she believed only one other person present would understand. 

“ _Ambassador_ …,” 

The older Spock glanced up from his stew. 

“ _The bond appears to be broken._ ” 

“ _True_ ,” he replied. _“And I am satisfied. It was what we agreed_.” 

“ _Yet it is your loss_.” 

“ _I accept small losses regularly. My chair is a demonstration_.” 

Her strategy worked. She got an answer to the question that worried her most. And since she was centre of attention, she could drop a heavy hint. 

“I was … teasing the Ambassador,” she explained, “reminding him about the last time we worked together. That was a _surprise assignment_.” 

The elder Spock shook his head. 

“I recommend we finish eating, Lieutenant, before we broach any serious subjects.” 

* * *

Should have trained as an engineer, Len thought. They only deal with machines; nobody asks them to do people. 

“What do they want me for?” he asked. 

“Could you,” Carol Marcus stopped to glance back at their table. “Could you make it look like you’re not angry? The Legion reps are watching.” 

“I’m not angry.” 

“Your arms are crossed. Your head is tipped back, like my asking nearly blew it off. When you talk your eyes open wide--,” 

“Okay, okay.” 

He made the necessary adjustments. Doctor Marcus gave him a very nice smile, which he accepted as compensation. 

“Look Carol, I’m not sure.” 

“You teach interns all the time,” she argued. “And the classes won’t get harder than first year biology.” 

“Teaching is not the problem.” 

“Then what?” 

He started a diagnostic: Carol Marcus, doctor of applied physics – analyse his present levels of trust in her understanding and discretion. 

She was a weapons specialist. But she also had an interesting take on how her skills ought to be used. It was Marcus who developed improved cryotubes for John Harrison and his crew, containers which could not revive any individual without combined authorisation from several Federation worlds. And because of her, each of those augmented humans received nano-implants, difficult to distinguish from nerve tissue, which could produce paralysis when hit by a phaser set to stun. 

“I have a daughter,” he said to her, though the diagnostic had not finished running. 

Carol frowned quizzically. 

“She’s pissed off with me right now, and if I were her, I’d be mad too. On board the Enterprise, I only see adult faces. Nobody reminds me of her.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Doctor Marcus also used the prestige of her father’s name to lobby the Admiralty. She wanted Federation law changed to forbid the construction of vessels like the USS Vengeance, which ran with virtually no crew. 

“A captain with lives to protect is circumspect about the use of force,” she had argued. 

Len attended that hearing. She made a damn fine speech. 

“Then of course, you mustn’t volunteer,” she said. “I’ll explain to Admiral Silva. The Enterprise has nineteen other people with suitable qualifications --,” 

“I’ll do it.” 

“-- in life sciences. Tolo Niim was a teacher before he join – what did you say?” 

“I’ll do it. Sign me up.” 

“Oh.” 

After a moment of surprise, a second smile lit up Doctor Marcus’ face. That was a bonus, seeing as they were even from the last one. 

* * *

Table cleared of plates, first sips of _cafezinho_ taken. Nyota tried again. 

“Now?” she asked. 

Elizabete Nascimento sighed into her coffee and said to Christine Chapel, “I did not anticipate this.” 

Ambassador Spock leaned back in his chair.

“Fortunately, I have fielded persistent enquiries from Lieutenant Uhura in the past.” 

Then he gave her a look which, had it come from her Spock, she would know to prepare herself for bad news. 

“Tell me what you know,” the Ambassador asked, “about clan Menos.” 

“Vulcan renegades,” Nyota said. “They dock their ear points and live a nomadic existence as traders.” 

“The last known location of our father,” the Ambassador turned towards her Spock, “was on board a Menos vessel. I was able to make visual contact thirty-nine days ago, at which time it was clear he was recovering from illness. I have attempted two subspace hails since, but they have gone unanswered.” 

“Did you perceive that he was in danger?” Spock asked. 

“My impression was that he did not speak freely. Whether this was the result of intimidation from the clan, or something else, I could not say. But the Menos in this timeline have important trading links with the Klingon Empire. A certain incident in the Neutral Zone may have made our father’s hosts wary of exchanging communication with Federation sources.” 

“What about the half-human baby?” Nyota asked. 

The Ambassador paused. His expression lost its severity. 

“She was held up to the subspace transmitter, so that I might see her. Her name is T’Praa.” 

* * *

After the taxi collected them from the restaurant, Nyota asked the driver to stop at the junction of Avenida do Comando and Avenida dos Astronautas. She informed the Vice Admiral that they wished to walk the rest of the way to their accommodation. 

“I need exercise,” was the reason she gave their fellow passengers. But her decision was not made in consultation with him. They left the cab at their stop, but for the first twenty meters a steady pace could not be established because Spock needed to put on his coat. 

He considered the nature of his own need. According to the display inside the hovertaxi, the outside temperature was twelve degrees centigrade and logic would suggest it was preferable to take exercise during the day. But he deferred, because Nyota seemed intent on doing more than walking. 

“We could take a detour,” she suggested, as he tied his scarf. “Thanks to my conversation with the Legion reps, I know where to find their school.” 

Spock was aware that Starfleet had facilities on site for the education of officers’ children. The school run by _Legião da Boa Vontade_ , apparently, was one of these. The grounds were less than half a kilometer from their apartment.

They were both surprised to find the building fully lit. The main entrance doors were propped open. At the boundary fence they stopped where they had a clear view inside. Spock counted twenty-three different individuals either milling at the reception desk or moving back and forth. 

“What is the purpose of all this activity?” he asked. 

“The banner over the desk is announcing a celebration for _festa junina_ tomorrow night. So this must be preparation, organisers setting up. See that?” 

What she pointed out was a young Terran male who appeared from the shadows, having approached the school from its sports field. Unless Spock was mistaken, he wore seven brimmed hats nested inside each other and carried peculiar lengths of cord with coloured appendages. 

“Bunting,” Nyota told him, when he asked. The hat wearing Terran must have heard them. He turned and peered into the darkness, as if to locate the source of the voice. Light from the school entrance revealed his face. 

Spock felt sudden shock and fear, but kept these under control. His body betrayed him only by a slight increase in the speed of his heartbeat. 

Nyota called out, “ _Senhor, existem ingressos para venda?_ ” 

She conducted a short, polite conversation with the man, after which he went inside the school. They resumed their walk. Nyota made a spontaneous decision to hold his hand, and what passed between them telepathically was pleasant. Nothing suggested that she had seen what he saw when light shone on the young man’s face. 

For three point eight seconds, Spock had seen an exact likeness of John Harrison. 

Nyota’s lack of concern was sufficient to convince him that the experience was merely a distortion in his own perception. He attributed this to _Vi’mashaya P’pil’lai’ai_ , the illness he suffered after Vulcan was destroyed. Though the worst psychosomatic symptoms had come and gone, recent events had triggered minor relapses. 

With a view to distract himself, he concentrated on conversation, and on the increased pressure of Nyota’s grip, which was a statement of intent. 

“You wish to attend this school celebration?” 

“That was just Portuguese practice,” Nyota replied. “I doubt we could go, even if we wanted to. I am not convinced that Ambassador Spock came all this way just to tell us about your father.” 

“You believe he has an assignment for us.” 

“It’s the unusual amount of high level subspace traffic this month. I don’t have clearance for all of it, but what I can intercept suggests an important event is going to be held here. And sensitive. Diaries are being booked with meetings that have code names. Security is being enriched around certain embassies and Starfleet buildings. My theory is that Headquarters will host negotiations between Andoria and the Xindi homeworld to redistribute planetary territories which belonged to Vulcan.” 

“This would explain the Ambassador’s caution,” Spock agreed. 

“So why not take us somewhere private, where he could speak freely?” 

Spock could not reach a hypothesis of his own that answered the question to his satisfaction. 

“We lack sufficient facts, even for conjecture.” 

“I’m surprised you have tolerated this much guesswork from me. You’re much stricter about that, normally.” 

“Normally you are not squeezing my hand.” 

“Oh that,” she said dismissively. “Like I said in the cab, I need some exercise.” 

Their quarters were situated in R.H10E, Block 12228. Accomodation units were constructed in a formation inaptly called ‘horseshoe’. All doors faced the shared driveway and cloistered grounds. The entrance to their apartment, number 790, was on the second level, at the base of the ‘shoe’, and therefore visible to the greatest number of their neighbours. 

Exterior illumination, directly over their door, reacted to their arrival. It was naive to hope that a moment’s intimacy would go unnoticed on that uplifted stage, under that spotlight. But Spock had never tried to resist manual stimulation over the distance they had walked. He knew he should and could wait the few seconds it would take for Nyota to open her bag and find her security token to release the locks. Instead he pressed his body against her back, slipped his arms underneath hers to reach the front of her jacket and pull down the zipper. 

Nyota giggled. “Nothing wears you out.” 

Her hair was arranged high on her head, exposing tasty portions of Nyota’s neck and ears. He was savouring the saltiness of her, and feeling his way inside the jacket, when a voice called out. 

“Uhura!!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portuguese words/phrases used in this chapter: 
> 
> Aqui está - we are here  
> Obrigado – thank you  
> Feijoada – black bean stew  
> Cafezinho – Brazilian strained coffee, served in small cups  
> Escola – school  
> Festa Junina – winter harvest festival, extending through June and July. Schools often host their own celebrations as fund raisers.  
> Senhor, existem ingressos para venda? - Sir, are there tickets for sale? Nyota is asking whether the school still has tickets available for their celebration.


	3. Bundle of Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portuguese terms used in this chapter:
> 
> Parabéns! - congratulations!
> 
> Vulcan terms used in this chapter:
> 
> kotik - vulva  
> 

Nyota could imagine what a sight the two of them must have made. Thanks to Spock’s arms wrapped round her from behind, her elbows were lifted level with her shoulders. Her bomber jacket was open and the top three buttons of her silk shirt undone. Spock’s right hand was inside that shirt, toying with the lace over one bra cup. Until Hikaru shouted her name, Spock had been happily sucking a mark into the base of her throat. 

She turned as best she could. Sulu’s mouth was still open. 

“Bad timing,” he said at last. 

“A little,” she replied. “Where have you been?” 

Spock was withdrawing his embrace. She caught him by his coat sleeve so he couldn’t go too far. 

“Vancouver. Lost track of time – sorry – it's been so … so overwhelming.” 

“What has?” 

“I’m going to be a dad!!” 

_Parabéns!_ Nyota’s brain identified the correct term in Portuguese, and had the same expressions ready in Arabic, Japanese, Klingon, Orion and Rhiannsu.

But she didn’t say any of them. 

“It was my birthday present from Ben. He bought a womb reservation at Pacific Fertility, and his sister agreed to donate eggs. Today we watched the zygote form ... the cells divide ... magnified on the display in our unit and it was just --,” 

Nyota felt Spock’s captured hand choose a new place to rest, against her stomach. Gently, his fingers curled and straightened, over and over. Hikaru was looking up at the sky, trying to gain enough composure to keep talking. 

“-- and, and they can fit the womb to any of us, you know, over our bodies, so that we can feel what it’s like to carry --,” 

Sulu had his hands out in front of him, imagining how extended his silhouette would be. Then his face seized up with emotion. Nyota watched, waited, did not want to speak if he had not finished. 

It was Spock who said, “I believe congratulations are in order.” 

“Yes,” she joined in, “yes, this is --,” 

She got stuck there, could not decide on a descriptor. Exciting? Wonderful? Weird? She had never heard Hikaru or Ben talk about wanting to become parents. Now they were. What she said next she regretted; it made her sound like a killjoy. 

“Have you told Nascimento? You missed a meeting.” 

“Did I?” he asked, and then laughed. “Oh yeah.”

He wiped his eyes, shook his head and said, “Well, I guess I’m gonna have to disappoint her. Starfleet need test pilots for the new Espírito rapid response fleet. That’s where she wants me, because it’s a prestige posting. But _killer_ schedule. Ben has work with Scotty’s team rebuilding the Enterprise. If I join them, I get sensible hours and transporter access. Means both of us can beam down to Vancouver for break days and watch the baby grow.” 

Nyota shrugged. “You’ve got to do what’s right for you,” she said. 

Privately, she wished she could test pilot the Espírito. But her grades in flying and navigating had been in the top five percentile, not the top one bracket required. 

Spock was now making a second, stealthy foray inside her bomber jacket from the back, delicately pulling her tucked shirt out from her jeans. 

“And we need a new place,” Hikaru said. “Baby in a houseboat is not gonna work. Property with land is out of our budget, but Ben’s sister is talking about selling her apartment. With that capital and three incomes we could manage.” 

Nyota felt evening breeze on her bare back and Spock’s knuckles against the skin between her shoulder blades, doing a manual version of limbo to glide underneath her bra and catch the hook. She grabbed her jacket panels at the front and held them together. Between her thighs nerves were thrumming. 

Hikaru started to tell them the back story -- how John Harrison’s destruction, Kirk’s death and the Enterprise freefall got Ben thinking about life’s fragility and how he wanted to have a child, a genetic link to his spouse that would be there whenever Sulu was not. 

If asked at any other time, Nyota would have called the subject a turn off. But it wasn't having any adverse effect. Her bra clung to her body by shoulder straps alone. Spock had moved his hand out from her jacket and inserted it into the back pocket of her jeans. The ‘hmms’ and ‘umms’ she made to acknowledge what Sulu said drew out and grew a little breathless. 

“ _Anyway_ …,” Sulu ran out of story. Spock exhaled heavily into Nyota’s hair. 

“I should message the Admiral, if it’s not too late,” Hikaru said. 

“She likes to write her reports at night,” Nyota encouraged the idea. “I bet she’s up.” 

“Do you think so? Long as I’m not intrud --,” 

Sulu’s eyes caught motion; Nyota saw his glance shift. Very likely he saw Spock’s pocket hand, which withdrew to go in search of new parts it could tantalise. It now fingered her inside leg. Someone was getting careless. 

“Yeah, I’ll do that. Have a good night.” 

Nyota thought she saw Sulu wink before he turned to head downstairs. Soon as he was gone, she held up her security token. 

“We need to be on the other side of this door.” 

Once there, Nyota kicked off her mules. She watched them skate and spin across the tiled floor and clunk against the sofa. Spock removed her jacket and shirt together. Then she turned to face him. 

“Well,” she said, “didn’t see that coming.” 

Her bra straps were precariously balanced on the crests of her shoulders. One more move might send them plummeting to her wrists. Spock left them alone. His gaze aimed lower. Nyota started to rock her hips side to side, predicting correctly that his eyes would follow their motion. He sank to his knees. His nose pressed into her belly and he caught the waistband of her jeans between his teeth. 

Curious. Spock pulled the cloth away from her body, darkened the demin with his saliva. Nyota reckoned he had the strength to bite through the seams or tear out the fly button, except he was not pulling that hard. Her bra fell down; the cups landed on his head. They didn’t distract him. Nyota brought them forward over his eyes to make a sexy blindfold. 

That interrupted his strange fixation. He unlocked his jaw, leaned back and felt blindly for her button and zipper, undid them in the usual fashion. The bra slipped off his face and inspired his wry smile. 

Curious, again, how Nyota had to take over after that, push her jeans and briefs down to her bikini line. Spock returned to his fascination with the middle of her body, pushed his tongue inside her bellybutton so hard it made her step back to keep her balance. That caused his head to slip down and by the luck of timing he could watch demin and cotton slip down also, witness the revealing of her. At that point he resumed his longstanding, familiar obsession with the place her legs met. He bestowed a soft Vulcan kiss, placed two fingers against the seam of her _kotik_ and then, slowly, eased them inside. 

So good. 

But she could not take much more of that standing up. Already, she had steadied herself by grabbing a twisted hank of Spock’s hair like a handle. Her nails ground his scalp in the process. He would interpret that as a reward for work well done and try harder. 

She pulled his head back, so that he looked up at her. 

“Your frail, Terran girlfriend needs to lie down.” 

Spock withdrew his fingers from her and shamelessly put them in his own mouth. 

“Especially if you plan on tasting. And I’m hobbled here. I need to finish undressing and you need to start.” 

She let go on his hair and held out her hand meaningfully. He understood, partly. She received her bomber jacket and shirt, which he had clutched to his chest. 

“Keep going,” she waved him on. 

Obediently he opened his own coat and shrugged it off along with his scarf. Wrap shirts were the fashion in São José, tied tight round the waist with a collared v-neck and fitted bicep sleeves. They were meant to set off a little jewellery, a curb chain or string of coconut shell beads, and had to be matched with straight leg jeans and boots. Spock paid no attention to such things, but he would add to his wardrobe and dress to please one person. Nyota caught Doctor Chapel staring at him as they waited for Nascimento to organise the taxis. 

Who could blame her? Spock looked amazing in black. 

It was finally Nyota’s turn to stare. The shirt peeled away like second skin. Probably Spock found the fit illogical (his expression was focussed, concentrated on pulling without tearing), but the contortion and effort contracted muscles as they were being uncovered. Nyota’s legs, stripped bare of her jeans, were crossed at the knees. Her clothes were a tight ball she hugged against her stomach. 

He stood up to remove his boots. The swelling in his black jeans was off centre, left side of his fly. He unzipped himself halfway, inserted a hand. He heard her murmur and glanced up. 

On impulse, she said, “Leave your trunks on a while longer.” 

That was his last piece of black, fitted clothing, full of promise. He gathered up the rest, paused to note how Nyota had compacted hers. Then he stopped. And he stayed that way, just staring at her bulge of dirty laundry, long enough to make her wonder. 

“What?” she asked. 

He reached out and took her clothes away. He wrapped his own things around the outside, smoothing them to maintain the spherical shape. Then he gave it back. He nudged the larger ball against her until she put her arms back where they had been.

This must have been what he wanted. Spock put on his satisfied face – no smile or betrayal of emotion in his eyes but a complete lack of tension around his mouth. She felt, for a moment, like a test programme he had run without errors, a project managed to completion. 

If not for the erection stretching his trunks, she would have questioned whether he still cared about having sex. 

“Shall we?” she asked, turning in the direction of their bedroom. 

The next thing Nyota knew, she was swept off her feet and reclining in his arms. What was it? He looked … did she imagine it? … almost concerned. 

“When I said frail,” she clarified, “I really just meant that I’d come too hard to stay standing.” 

But she did not tell him to put her down. 

Spock could not be seriously entertaining a notion that she lacked strength. If he had, he would not have lain her down and ensured she came so hard that every centimetre of their mattress was needed while she hauled herself hand over hand across the sheets, swept pillows onto the floor and rattled the brass headboard. Nyota was in a liquid state of body and mind when Spock stepped out of his trunks. Maybe imagination made him thicker, longer and harder because there wasn’t anything else going on in her mind. She was obsessed with what was missing, missing, missing until he planted his elbows on either side of her ribs and canted his hips against hers and then everything was fine. 

Afterwards, she dozed. When she woke there was a pillow under her head, a comforter over her nakedness. She could see the reflection of a flame in their dressing room mirror, by which she knew Spock was meditating. 

In that same reflection, Nyota also saw their combined bundle of clothes. It rested on the laundry hamper, no longer a tight ball. Without hands to hold it, the fabrics relaxed and she would say the shape was more like an egg. 

No – no, not that. Eggs were not so elongated. What it made her remember was a nativity set, in ebony wood, that her auntie Salome set out on her coffee table every Christmas. It had twelve pieces: three wise men, two shepherds that each brought one ewe, the obligatory cow and donkey. Mary and Joseph knelt and gazed lovingly on the ovoid carving that was always placed at the centre of the display, meant to be a baby wrapped in swaddling …., 

… baby …., 

Suddenly things made sense. Spock tickled her belly while Hikaru talked about Pacific Fertility womb, and later stretched her jeans with his teeth. He made her hold that bundle of laundry in front of her and she had not understood why. 

Unless it made her look pregnant. 

Her hand rose up under the comforter and skimmed over her stomach. They had never talked about children. There was a strong probability Spock was infertile and at any rate, both of them wanted careers at command level. If the terror of John Harrison had caused Spock to experience a change of heart, then he was under obligation to say. She made him take a vow. 

_“... if I decide something that effects both of us, no matter how bad it is, no matter what the consequences, I will tell you. I believe I owe you that much, to know the truth, even if it means I disappoint you. Do you vow the same to me?”_

At some point she dozed off again. The next time her eyes opened, the glow that kept the bedroom from complete darkness did not come from Spock’s firepot but from his PADD. He stood by the bed, reading. 

“I have disturbed your sleep,” he said, when he noticed her stir. 

“No,” she said. “I really don’t know what woke me. Maybe it was the sound of you, frowning.” 

“I am not frowning.” 

“With your eyes,” she said. “You’re not pleased about whatever you are reading.” 

He tilted his head, the closest he would get to conceding her observation. He used his stylus to scroll back through the text. 

“We have received a memo from Vice-Admiral Nascimento,” he said. “According to the composition signature, she completed it eight minutes ago.” 

“What time is it now?” 

“Two hundred hours and twenty-one minutes.” 

“Seriously? I knew she was a night person, but even so --,” 

“The time concerns me less than the content,” Spock went on. “The Vice-Admiral is ordering us to be packed and ready to leave this accommodation by six hundred hours tomorrow morning.” 


	4. O Mosteiro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vulcan terms used in this chapter: 
> 
> Ezyet – Auntie  
> Salan - wind  
> Psthan – searching  
> Molkom – from the Vulcan term mol-kom, meaning “serenity”  
> Meska – my invention. Taken from the Vulcan verb ‘to hold’, but meaning a sling, in this case one worn around an adult’s upper body to support a baby.  
> Lirt’k - minutes  
> Ko-bath - neice 
> 
> Portuguese terms/phrases used in this chapter: 
> 
> Espere – “Wait” or “Hold on”  
> Pingado – a cup of espresso coffee with added milk  
> Pão na chapa – a white bread roll sliced in half, spread with margarine or soft cheese. The spread covered side is pan fried until golden brown.  
> me chamar de Maria – Call me Maria  
> Muito pequeno – very small  
> Desculpa, Ramon, perdemos nossa virada? - Excuse me Ramon, have we missed our turning?  
> São João da Mata – Saint John in the Wilderness  
> O Mosteiro – The Monastery

The Infant demanded her presence. He let this be known with sharp, emotive psi signals, striking her consciousness as rapidly as lightening used to strike the ground during storms on Vulcan. And his noises had become more difficult to ignore. Three days earlier, he had learned to think her name. 

_Pel! Pel! Pel!_

Nevertheless, she would not curtail what she was doing. There was no physical reason for his clamour; he had been fed, bathed and dressed.

Pel remained at the window, watching the Salan carriers as they taxied to the runway in preparation for take-off, while others landed with their cargo to unload at the district depot. She had not seen any of the 430 models yet. The New Vulcan bulletin announced yesterday that twenty-four had been acquired to handle the increased volume of haulage, particularly for construction materials. 

Coming and going, coming and going. When the bulletin had finished broadcasting, Pel turned from the display and asked her _ezyet_ if she might obtain employment at the depot. There were part time shifts which coincided with the thirty-five hour recesses between education sessions. But her great aunt accessed the permit application to fly, and noted that the minimum age for consideration was thirteen. It would be necessary to wait three more years. 

_Pel! Pel!_

Coming and going, coming and going. Yes, if she could become a Salan pilot, it would improve her circumstances. Pilots saw so much in the course of each working shift, not only on the colony but also on the Federation worlds which supplied tools, textiles, appliances and chemicals (less of the latter, perhaps, now the plant at Uzh Regal had opened). Orders had strict deadlines. In combination with unexpected mechanical failures or changes in demand, a pilot would need imaginative and flexible thinking – thinking not greatly required in her lessons. 

_Pel! Pel!_

Coming and going, coming and going. A Salan pilot would see many faces – meet many people and develop numerous acquaintances. Perhaps, they would have the good fortune to forego the tedious process of _psthan_ , the onset of puberty, with its long forms to complete, the healer’s examination and the selection dossiers _ezyet_ had to study. A Salan pilot might discover the right bondmate without those procedures. They would not have to wait, like Pel, to receive a mandate from the High Council with orders to bond or to receive insemination when she came of age. 

_Pel! Pel!_

“Pel.” 

An authoritative adult voice, speaking aloud and in close proximity, could not be ignored without consequences. Pel set her face and turned away from the window. 

Her great aunt stood in the doorway of her room. “You are being called,” _ezyet_ Hunith said. 

Pel acknowledged the fact with a slow blink. 

“The Infant is merely using our bond to vocalise,” she answered, “to use his learned vocabulary.” 

“The infant has a name. We gave him a name sixty-six days ago.” 

Pel did not answer, and shielded her thoughts from her great aunt’s scrutiny. 

_You named him_. 

In spite these precautions, _ezyet_ Hunith responded as if their bond were open. 

“Your participation in the process of choosing was encouraged, and I was greatly inclined to favour your suggestions. When these were not forthcoming, I had no alternative but to make a decision. We had reached the Council’s deadline for registering the birth.” 

“I do not believe Molkom is a suitable name,” Pel argued. 

“You have made this assertion previously. And yet you do not offer alternatives.” 

Her great aunt came closer, to stand beside her. She seemed to study the view through the window for thirty-nine seconds, until Molkom began his summons again. 

_Pel! Pel! Pel!_

“This is your morning to supervise him,” _ezyet_ reminded her. 

“I have seen to all his physical needs, and put him down in his stimulation bowl. He requires no supervision.” 

“He requires social interaction. This is as important as food and clothing. If you brought him to the window, he would have your company and the stimulation you enjoy from observing the depot traffic.” 

Pel admitted, later and to herself only, that her observations did improve with Molkom trussed against her chest in his _meska_. He stopped calling out. Their bond warmed with his pleasure at the sound of her thoughts and, though his comprehension was limited, he was also pleased with the quantity of information she gave him to explain what was happening at the depot. 

_Bays 1 and 2 are reserved for inedible liquids. You will note the empty tanks stored in the yard adjacent. Drinking water and edibles are distributed from a different facility, which is located in the Sbah sector. A tank is brought from the yard to the bay by crane and its external surface undergoes a cleaning process. The interior is clean already; this is a requirement immediately after its return from despatch. The Salan carrier ready for loading activates reverse thrusters to fit itself into the assigned bay. After that its bearing clamps are unfurled. The minimum number of clamps is five, but eight may be required to stabilise high density shipments such as furans. There, on the starboard display of the Salan you see the shipment details uploading: the reference number, designated route code, destination address, chemical notation of the contents, volume. The notation remains visible during transport, along with an emergency code for contact with the depot in emergencies._

She pointed out every loaded flight which left Bays 1, 5 and 7, but was obliged to pause her explanations after that. _Ezyet_ Hunith entered her room again. 

“We do not eat for another fifty-seven _lirt’k_ ,” Pel said to her great aunt. 

“I have not come here to summon you to a meal,” _ezyet_ replied. 

Filling had commenced in Bay 9 (geosynthetic aggregates). There was a delay in operations. Pel judged this was necessary to correct a fault in the flow capacitor, since staff in supervisory uniforms gathered at these controls. Once the issue was resolved, a light signal informed the ground crew. 

_Ezyet_ observed the event to its resolution, but did not communicate the reason she had ceased her work early. Pel became more curious to know this. She stopped looking outside and looked up at her great aunt. 

Hunith did not look back at her. “I must leave New Vulcan in three days’ time.” 

_No_. 

Pel did not shield either thought or emotion. 

_Do not leave, not again. Ezyet, I insist – it is not logical. Molkom is too young. He will not understand your absence, and this will have a detrimental effect on his emotional development._

_Pel, you appear to have read the texts I recommended for neonatal psychology. I am impressed._

_Do not leave. The bond between you will weaken. The effect will be the same as if you had ….,_

The carrier in Bay 9 eased out and increased thrusters, ready for take-off. Pel felt Hunith’s hand come to rest on the top of her head. 

_Please continue, ko-bath. The effect will be the same as if --_

_As if you had died._

_I suggest you review your reading. Molkom is too young to associate the strength of a psi bond with life or its weakness with death._

Pel could not speak the truth and also manage her reaction to it. She chose the latter. The hand on her head began to groom her hair, smoothing it down the sides of her head and her neck, returning to the starting place to repeat the motion. 

_I must consider other priorities, Pel, perhaps more critical ones. Molkom’s safety, for example._

_Ezyet, please --,_

_And yet, I perceive some merit in your case, and anticipated this reaction._

Pel smarted at the word – reaction. She closed her eyes and began her breath control. 

_The High Council have made arrangements whereby you both may accompany me._

* * *

At six hundred hours exactly, there was a hail at their apartment door. Spock answered. A man who introduced himself as Gabriel said his cab was waiting in the courtyard downstairs, and did they need him to carry any bags? 

Spock did the carrying, except for Nyota’s coffee flask, which she held up in front of her face to hide a yawn. It had been difficult to sleep after receiving the Vice-Admiral's memo. 

The cab was a blue _Voa Cidade_. Elizabete Nascimento always told them to avoid that make, if other taxis were available. The youngest models were twenty years old. Nyota would bet this one was older. And it had no registration plates or licence inscriptions. Spock noticed this also. When he mentioned it to Gabriel, the driver laughed. 

“I must have been the best you could get at short notice.” 

The thrusters were noisy, the seats uncomfortable. A long crack jagged across the top of the interior fusilage. The driving was never smooth enough for Nyota to risk pouring coffee, but at least the journey did not last long. They remained within city limits -- Gabriel went as far as _Jardim das Indústrias_ , turned into a high fenced yard with automated gates which he claimed was his depot. 

Looking round, Nyota saw a few parked cars but no other people. 

“I have to wait for a signal,” Gabriel said. “That’s how we know your next ride is coming.” 

_Next_ ride? 

At six hundred hours twenty-three minutes, a small window in the depot office slid open. No person was visible through the sheer curtains, but Gabriel waved. Another minute passed. Then the automated gates opened. The furthest thing from a _Voa Cidade_ swept through them – it was the wide grille of a Galaxia coach with that year’s registration. Nyota remembered the ones Nascimento hired to take the Enterprise crew to Caraguatatuba for a weekend. 

Gabriel transferred their bags to the Galaxia’s luggage hold. They boarded the coach, which was empty and remained empty long enough for Nyota to drink her first cup of coffee and a refill. At six hundred hours forty-nine minutes, she exchanged an enquiring glance with Spock. At six hundred fifty-three a new driver climbed up into the cockpit. He was taller and burlier than Gabriel, and neither of them ventured to ask him questions. 

Caffeine could not keep Nyota from falling asleep. She woke suddenly -- the Galaxia made a tight turn that shunted her body sideways. She blinked to clear her vision. They were coming to a halt in another parking lot, a longer, emptier space alongside a broad highway, a roadside rest stop. Beyond the tarmac, the land in all directions was open, green, rolling countryside. 

Spock assessed her perplexed expression correctly. “We have crossed state boundaries, and are now in Minas Gerais. The driver has instructed us to disembark and eat breakfast at this restaurant.”

Nyota had doubts. These were confirmed by the framed menu on the restaurant door, which started with lunch. Their driver approached as Nyota was reading, grunted, “ _Espere_ ,” and let himself inside. He stood in the lobby, shouted “Marcos!” and “Camila!”. The walls sent back the sound in echoes. Eventually a girl, maybe twelve years old, came from somewhere and played hostess, escorted them to a corner table in a big, deserted dining room. 

Breakfast was _pingado_ and _pão na chapa_. The driver received his packed in a takeaway box and left without speaking to them. Spock seemed less perturbed than Nyota thought he might be. 

“The segmented nature of our journey,” he said, “suggests the Vice Admiral needs to keep our destination secret. Very likely, our drivers have carried out the only instructions they have.” 

They watched him unload their bags, get into the Galaxia and start the engines. The restaurant sound system began to play a Sao Paolo radio station. The girl appeared to collect their plates and cups and offer them a plate of sliced papaya. Nyota accepted, only to have something to pass the time. Every vehicle that turned off the highway became an object of her scrutiny. 

About thirty minutes later a Salan freight carrier, 450 gauge, steered its bulky fusilage into the parking lot. The pilot who climbed out looked shorter and younger than Nyota, but with enough purple hair to make up any height difference. She strode over from her cab to the windows near their table, blew them a kiss through the glass and picked up their luggage. 

They rode in the cabin behind her driving seat, fully furnished with decor to match her flamboyant hair. She would not tell them her real name -- “ _me chamar de Maria_ ” -- nor did she know where they were going. Maria let them study her dashboard console; it had a display showing her booked deliveries for the day. 

They became familiar with loading bays on the roof spaces of small supermarkets. In Pouso Alegre the store was many times larger, with a backlog of freighters to unload. Maria parked the Salan in the waiting lot and left them while she went to speak with depot staff. Just when Nyota thought their journey could not get stranger, a warehouse manager (Vitor, according to his name badge) climbed into the carrier and greeted them by name. He gave them each a company overall, hard hat and boots, told to come out as soon as they had changed clothes.

“Sure,” Nyota said, to Vitor’s retreating back. 

Disguised as employees, their bags concealed in a shunting trolley, they followed Vitor across the loading yard and into the depot. Nyota took note of every sign – they started in Dry Goods, went through to Fresh Produce and Chillers. They took an elevator marked “Staff Only” and rode it down to an underground parking lot. Vitor directed them to load their bags into the hold of a modest hovercar. 

When they were all seated inside, he activated the thrusters. The dashboard powered up. It displayed a photograph of Vitor with his wife, three children and a dog. Nyota was about to react, but Vitor saved her the trouble. 

“You are invited home for lunch,” he said. 

Home was a suburb called Fernandes. Lunch lasted two hours and Vitor, unlike their previous drivers, enjoyed conversation and was happy to reveal where she and Spock were headed. 

“São João da Mata,” he said. 

Spock consulted his PADD for a street map and statistics. 

“The population of this community,” he noted, “at the last census, was 2,315 people.” 

“ _Muito pequeno_ ,” Vitor agreed. 

Then he apologised; it was time he returned to work. But he told them not to worry. Their bags were already packed inside his brother Ramon’s Variado, which would take them the rest of the way. Vitor advised they keep their supermarket employee disguises, particularly the hats (Victor pulled one of his ears and addressed his remarks to Spock, for reasons they could guess). 

Spock estimated the remainder of their journey would need an hour. He was wrong. Vitor had not mentioned that Ramon ran a courier business -- hence the Variado with removable back seats and roof storage. He had three drops and two collections to make in the city, including his twin cousins who always got a lift home from school. Only when that was done could they get on the state highway to São João da Mata. 

The geolocator on Spock’s PADD counted down the final kilometers. They entered the outskirts of São João da Mata twelve hours after Gabriel had called on their apartment in São José. 

Even then relief was premature. Ramon stayed on the highway, drove through the little town and almost went beyond it. The Variado took the last junction before it was too late. Then, after winding through a few residential streets, Ramon chose a turning that narrowed to a single lane of compacted red earth. Houses became fewer and far between. Curbs became banks grown over with ferns and grass. Nyota spotted the highway, across a field on their right, running parallel. 

“ _Desculpa_ , Ramon,” Nyota left her seat, crouched behind the driver. “ _Perdemos nossa virada_?” 

No, he told her. This was the way; he had been here many times. 

So Nyota sat back and fought off the niggling feeling that they would never, ever finish travelling. The red dirt road seemed to go on and on, the monotony broken when finally there was the option of a left hand turn. The Variado went that way. It followed a steep curve that climbed up and around the side of a verdant hill.

Bored, Nyota counted fenceposts passing on her side. After the seventy-eighth one they stopped, and so did the van. They had reached the crest of the hill where the land had been levelled, surrounded by high walls and closed off by gates across the road. Ramon did not attempt any communication to get security clearance for entry. He got out of the van and opened the gates. 

Something like time travel seemed to happen when he got back in the Variado and they drove through. 

The enclosure contained a small house with a verandah on cleared ground, plus two outbuildings. Nothing was derelict -- the salmon pink plaster had been recently painted along with the window shutters, and everything she could see seemed in good repair. But the structures themselves had clearly been there for ... who knew, maybe a century or more. And there were no signs of technology. Nyota spotted no subspace communication receiver on the roof, no sensor arrays anywhere. 

“If this is our destination,” Spock said, as the Variado’s engines powered down, “may we confirm the address?” 

Ramon clicked his tongue.

“Addresses do not get up this hill. But I know the people in town have a name for the place. They call it ‘ _O Mosteiro_ ’.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google maps link to the location I have used for the property at São João da Mata: 
> 
> https://www.google.co.uk/maps/@-21.918949,-45.9329265,3a,75y,90t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sd8_6Jol91E17Ad_wQnAtlw!2e0!7i13312!8i6656


	5. Gatherings Near the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all my long-suffering readers -- you must be starving for new material. I was finally able to book a week's vacation, and I have finished a university assignment earlier than expected. I don't want to get anyone's hopes up, because I really don't have time to create new material yet. But I did have this chapter and one other drafted, and thought I would polish and publish them as a Christmas gift and a statement of intent. I will be finishing this story, come hell or high water, and I will continue to create new Spuhura/Spyota stories once my coursework is done.  
> See the end of chapter for a glossary of Portuguese terms used in this chapter.

Their destination was a curious place. 

Spock stepped out of the Variado carrier after Nyota. He did not continue tofollow her, but paused with his feet planted on the ferrous soil which seemed characteristic to that area. Slowly, he turned three hundred and sixty-degrees in order to survey, as much as possible, the perimeter barrier which surrounded _O Mosteiro_. It was less than two meters high, covered in plaster that had cracked and broken in places to reveal mortared bricks underneath. He could see no force field distorting the air nearby. 

If intended for protection, it was difficult to imagine what this wall could keep out. 

He had many other questions, concerning the age of the buildings, who built them and the original purpose for their construction. But it was more important to remove their bags from the van. Nyota had already approached the largest of the three structures, climbed its steps and followed the covered porch around a corner to the west side of the building. 

He caught up with her, stopped where she was stopped, facing an entrance. 

“I can’t work out how to get in,” she said. 

The door, like the perimeter wall, was a barrier but not a particularly effective one. Nyota held the fitted handle. She applied pressure by pushing, then pulling, rattling the wooden panel against its fastenings. Spock was in the process of examining these when their driver Ramon called out. 

“ _Eu tenho a chave_.” 

Nyota translated as Ramon approached. He brought a strand of chain, weighted by a peculiar metal pendant. He inserted this ornament into a slot near the handle, turned it a full rotation to disengage an embedded shaft that fixed the door in place. 

“Huh,” Nyota said, as Ramon opened the entrance and beckoned them to go inside first. “At home, every antique shop sold keys. One of my teachers collected them. I used to wonder how they worked.” 

The doorway led directly into a kitchen. Here also, presentation challenged expectations. On a wooden table in the middle of the stone floor, a loaf of bread sat wrapped in a tea towel. A net of allium bulbs was suspended from a hook on one wall, and vegetables lay inside a crate on the counter. Spock saw no replicator. A great number of dishes were displayed in open faced cabinets, but there did not appear to be a steriliser to clean them. 

When Ramon entered, he took immediate interest in a structure Spock could not identify. It was an oblong construct, made either from stone or some aggregate. It occupied sixty-nine percent of the kitchen’s eastern wall. The top was stepped, to present horizontal surfaces at three different levels. The highest of these was taller than Ramon. It seemed solid but was in fact hollow. The driver viewed the interior by opening a metal door on the structure’s front face. 

After a short inspection he closed that and turned his attention to the middle level. It was also hollow, accessible by lifting a metal plate laid across the top. Ramon removed this, took a hand brush from its hook on the wall and swept out the exposed cavity. 

“ _Vou fazer uma fogueira no fogão,_ ” Ramon said. 

“Oh,” Nyota responded. Spock asked her to explain. 

“That,” she told him, pointing to the structure, “is the stove.” 

Spock continued to observe their driver at work. It was clear now why Ramon stooped and drew out straw and fragments of wood from a recess in the lowest level of the stove. He arranged these inside the middle level cavity. Matches from a nearby tin ignited this tinder. The process was not unfamiliar – Academy survival courses included lessons in fire building. Spock had anticipated needing this knowledge during missions to worlds with pre-warp technology. But not on Earth. 

And there were other, unexpected kitchen features which Ramon pointed out as he tended the new fire. He told them how to operate the clay filter for drinking water, how to wind up the lantern on the table for light. He pointed out the containers which stored oil, rice, beans, flour, salt, sugar and coffee. Fresh milk, they were informed, could be obtained if they walked down to the bottom of the hill, knocked at the door of the first farmhouse on their right, and asked for Senhora Ferreira. 

Finally, the driver added larger pieces of timber to the fire and replaced the metal plate over the middle level surface. He handed the antique key to Spock, suggested he wear the chain around his neck. Then he wished them both a good night and left. 

The rest of the house remained theirs to discover. Spock was inclined to explore. But daylight was fading and the temperature falling. So far as he knew, the lantern was their only source of illumination. And Nyota had pulled out a chair from the table, sat down heavily and rubbed her eyes. 

So he deferred. He filled two cups with water from the clay filter and joined her, angling his chair to face the attractive wave of heat coming from the stove. 

* * *

“... you can … why … new … and …,” 

School gymnasium acoustics, amplified music, bleachers filled with adults and excited children running across a squeaky polished floor to take their places. Jim strained to hear what Ricardo Silva was saying from his seat two places away. Only the occasional word was making it through all the noise. 

At least Bones and Carol were closer, and could provide an engaged audience. Or were they pretending? More than once, Jim caught them stealing glances at each other. 

He decided to give up, tune out for a bit and take in the _Festa Junina_ atmosphere. The Legion School was larger than he expected. Down on the gym floor, the youngest kids were ready to perform their dance, and there looked to be at least fifty of them. Some took their performance very seriously. They assumed and held the opening pose (left leg out, heel grounded, toes pointed forward, right hand on hip). A few were clearly searching the bleachers for faces they recognised. 

One boy, with a drawn-on moustache and beard, stood slightly out of his line and pushed his straw hat off when he absent-mindedly scratched his head. 

_Look at them_ , Jim thought. _Turning into the kind of adults they will be, only not realising_. 

One thing Jim did learn from Silva, before the music started, was that twenty-two percent of the pupils at the school were Starfleet kids. Half of those had lost one or both parents. That ought to have been his cue, as captain. He should have asked for the files of any children who transferred to the school as a direct result of the wrath of Khan. 

The dance routine started. Little people began to move, for the most part, in their rehearsed formations. The good ones were very good. The charming ones were the kids who believed they were good but lagged by half a beat or shifted to the left when they were supposed to go the other way. The absent-minded boy was in a category of his own. For the first minute he was fine, not outstanding but never incorrect. His head bobbed like someone had forgotten to screw it onto his neck properly. Other children watched each other, or their teachers who called out instructions, or the audience in the bleachers. The boy watched … who knew? Something higher than the bleachers, lower than the roof. 

Jim stopped noticing the others. He was pretty sure the little guy's straw hat would fall off again, and it did. The girls were whirling in circles to make their ruffled dresses flutter. The hat got in the way of all those moving feet. It was kicked more than once and in more than one direction. The boy broke formation to chase it down, abandoning his partner just as the groups were meant to link hands. 

The little guy had to barge through the next ring of dancers to get to the middle where his hat lay trampled. He took time he did not have to try and fix the brim. When he finally looked up it was no easy task to find his way back. The dancing circles had become straight lines and everyone had shifted along to change partners. 

Jim expected to see tears or a tantrum. For a moment the boy let anguish show on his face, and then just as quickly he wiped that expression clean. The nearest exit was a door that happened to be on Jim’s left. The boy took it, stepping out in time to the music as if this departure was part of his routine. 

Jim waited to the count of eight beats more, then got up and followed. 

The corridor outside, he’d been informed, was the longest one in the school. One end was reception. The boy was headed the other way, towards the back of the building. 

Jim tailed carefully. There was just enough human traffic in the hallway so that his presence did not seem suspicious. And along the way he would stop, wherever there was a noticeboard or art display on the wall, and pretend to look absorbed. 

It surprised him, when he got close enough to spot it, that one of the external doors at the back of the school had been left open. Naturally, the boy went outside -- at that age Jim would have done the same. It felt weird to abandon the pretence of aimless wandering, pick up his pace and realise he was now walking in the shoes of all those responsible adults who used to try and police the wayward son of George Kirk. 

Jim paused at the exit, peered through the doorway to get his bearings. There was lighting over a paved area directly outside, painted with hopscotch squares. Beyond that he saw a fenced tennis court on his right and football field on his left. The boy stood between the near goal posts. Jim checked the paved play area in both directions for staff or security people. He saw no one. 

If he tried to get too close, the kid might run away. So Jim came out only as far as the external lights, and faced the tennis courts. The boy was a shadowy, unfocussed figure in his peripheral vision. 

That’s probably why he did not notice the kid turn to watch him. Jim was about to risk a glance at the goal posts when he heard a child’s voice say, “You’re the captain of the Enterprise.” 

The boy left the goal posts and shortened the space between them by half. 

Jim replied, “News travels fast.” 

“We got a notice on our PADDs,” the boy said, and continued to approach. When they were hand shaking distance apart, he added, “I looked up your picture.” 

“Yeah?” 

Jim couldn’t help but get a buzz from the recognition. Maybe celebrity status would be useful, help the kid open up.

So he started to say, “What did you --- OW!!!” 

Damn!! What was it about shin bones? How could pain travel all the way down to his foot and all the way up to --,

Jim doubled over to rub the spot where there was gonna be one hell of a bruise tomorrow. “Mind telling me what I did to deserve that?” he asked. 

“You killed Lieutenant LeVar Horace Powell,” the boy said flatly, “my dad.” 

Jim let the name loiter in his mind until the memory surfaced. Lieutenant Powell worked in Engineering. He was assigned to the main engine flux transfer conduit when torpedo fire from the Vengeance ripped apart the secondary hull like it was nothing stronger than aluminium foil. Ship’s computer faithfully recorded the screams. 

“But you’ll say Admiral Marcus did it,” the boy added, “like everybody else does.” 

Jim grit his teeth as he straightened up. “I’m not saying anything.” 

“Because you’re guilty!” 

“Maybe you want to kick my other leg.” 

“What for?” 

“For your mom.” 

“My mom isn’t dead. She works at the Andorian consulate.” 

“I know where she works,” Jim said. He had committed to memory all the names of those lost, and facts about their immediate families. Bones thought it was a weird way to spend his recovery time, but now it might pay off. 

“I was thinking she might be mad at me too,” Jim said. “And I wouldn’t blame her. You could tell her you gave me another bruise just for her … Deon.” 

Deon reacted to the sound of his own name. Jim watched aggressive tension drain from the boy’s body, so his shoulders stopped hunching and the tendon on the side of his neck no longer stood out. 

“She would get mad at me,” Deon said. “Are you going to tell her?” 

“I’m not telling anyone. I’ll say I knocked my shin against the bleachers.” 

Young Mr. Powell, from the look on his face, might be making another assessment of him. Jim could hear faint sounds of a new song playing from the gymnasium. He did his own, low key steps to the beat as his leg began to feel better. 

“But I will be teaching here,” Jim told Deon. “I don’t think I can back out of that agreement, unless I tell someone how much you hate me.” 

The boy stuffed both his hands into his jeans pockets. 

“I don’t hate you. I was trying not to think about you – about you being here. But I couldn’t do it. Then I lost my hat.” 

“Oh,” Jim said, “Right. Then I should be grateful for the kick. It might have been worse, if you hated me.” 

“It’s just that everybody is thinking about you, since we got the notice. Everybody talks about you. Nobody talks about my dad. Probably nobody ever will.” 

Jim stopped dancing, looked up at the night sky. 

“Your dad graduated from the Academy two years before me. He already had a degree in Fluid Dynamics from MIT plus experience at Accion. He served on board the USS Goodman. He applied for transfer to the Enterprise and was accepted by myself on the strength of his service record and personal commendations from his captain and first officer.” 

Jim was tempted to check whether his speech was helping, except that would seem more like seeking personal approval. 

“LeVar liked to play piano in the lounge on D Deck. He got enough requests from the crew to receive permission to publish his shift pattern, so people would know when they could come listen. He wrote songs as birthday gifts. He was a mid-table player in Engineering’s Squash league, though I understand he once beat our unbeatable Ensign Chekov in a nail-biting match-point game that lasted ninety minutes.” 

“On the day he died, Lieutenant Keenser sent Powell to the flux transfer conduit because Powell made the best judgements about energy management. We needed top people in the right places. Our warp core was down and we were stuck in Klingon space.” 

Jim sighed. Tough to recall one memory without digging up others. His mind got stuck in a weird loop, replaying the trip to Qonos and the capture of the fugitive. Not every detail, just a collection of unconnected images, losing focus at the point where he exhausted himself trying to knock out John Harrison and yet the man simply would not fall.

He looked down to find that Deon no longer stood next to him. 

Instead, the boy was walking back to the goal posts. There was someone else outside now -- a shadowy figure approaching the football field from the gymnasium side of the school. It might be a security officer making their inspection circuit. Jim held back and waited. 

Deon did not seem phased. He called out, “ _Olá_!” 

“ _Olá_ ,” the shadow figure responded. “ _Como vai_?” 

Probably Deon Powell replied. But Jim did not register anything else, not after the figure came within range of the school’s lights and the shadow no longer obscrued their face. Jim’s voice caught in his throat; there was no time for warning. He would have to get between them. 

As he ran, his brain protested. It can’t be. Can’t be! But he could only go by what he saw. 

Except that it wasn’t what he saw. Or wasn’t what he ended up seeing. He stopped short of charging down Yasmin de Freitas, the senior _Legião_ representative. He spluttered an apology, let de Freitas accept it with a look that verged on doubtful. Then there was nothing else to be done. Jim listened politely while Deon Powell told Yasmin how they came to be outside, recited everything he had been told about his father. Captain Kirk’s reputation for sanity might not be harmed. 

Except to himself. 

The three of them returned to the gymnasium, went back to their respective seats. Bones gave Jim an enquiring look, and seemed to settle for a wink from Jim as explanation. A different group of children filed onto the floor in their costumes and performed another dance. Jim hardly noticed them. He could not stop thinking about that moment a figure stepped into the light and every aspect – the height, the build, even contours of the face – identified that person in his mind as John Harrison. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portuguese terms used in this chapter: 
> 
> Eu tenho a chave – I have the key  
> Vou fazer uma fogueira no fogão - I will build a fire in the stove  
> Olá! Como vai? - Hello! How’s it going?


	6. Questions Not to Ask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portuguese terms used in this chapter:
> 
> mulo - mule  
> e cabriole - a cart which can have two or four wheels

“Do you have any other questions?” Lieutenant Commander Chalmers asked. 

Pel had many. The warp core nacelles on the USS Nozomu were the largest engines she had ever seen. A crew of six serviced each one. Pel had already asked and been told their daily routines, had the energy redistribution process explained and watched an engineer locate and correct a feed obstruction. 

But her aunt had cautioned her. When Chalmers (“call me Zirconia”, she had said -- an offer they declined) offered to give Pel a tour through Engineering, _ezyet_ Hunith instructed her neice to bear in mind the officer’s responsibilities and not impose on Chalmer’s free time more than necessary. 

If not for that, Pel would have remained in Engineering for the rest of Alpha shift, learning almost everything she wished to know. Almost. The only question Chalmers could not answer concerned the journey itself. 

“It has puzzled me why we are travelling to Earth in such a circuitous manner.” 

Pel ventured the comment as they rode the turbolift down to the secondary hull. 

“We have been on board for three full shift rotations already,” she went on. “A direct shuttle service departs New Vulcan with greater frequency and would have brought us to our destination before now. The USS Nozomu is not scheduled to arrive at Terran spacedock for another seventy-two hours.” 

Lieutenant Commander Chalmers took twenty-four point nine seconds to formulate a response. 

“Maybe your great aunt chose this for your sake,” Chalmers suggested. “Imagine how dull a shuttle flight would be – strapped in your seat, probably holding the baby on your lap, with passengers who would not be interested in helping you pass the time ….” 

Pel acknowledged that a journey by shuttle would offer less stimulation. Yet _ezyet_ Hunith had not offered this explanation when asked the same question. 

She had said, “This is a subject I may discuss with you at a later date.” 

Pel knew the answer, therefore, was confidential. She acted presumptuously by asking Chalmers, reasoning that it would cause no harm. In the event that the truth were revealed, only Pel would know and she could keep that knowledge secret. 

But for now, the prudent thing to say was, “No thank you, Lieutenant Commander. I have no further enquiries.” 

* * *

“ _Bridge to Councillor Hunith. Do you read?_ ” 

Molkom was not disturbed by the hail signal or the call from Communications. He remained asleep. Hunith stepped out from his nursery pod before she replied. 

“I am here.” 

“ _We have an incoming transmission from New Vulcan, high security subspace channel. The captain has offered his ready room, if you would prefer to view it there_.” 

“Is there a reason I should relocate?” Hunith asked. “Can the transmission be intercepted?” 

“ _Not by any means I know_ ,” the communications officer said. “ _I was thinking about your niece_.” 

“Pel is being escorted on a tour of the warp core. Please send the transmission here.” 

“ _Aye, Councillor. Connecting now_.” 

The console screen, fitted to a wall in the common area of her quarters, began to flicker. Hunith positioned herself to face it, watched the shadowy reflection of her own head and shoulders centred in the display until the incoming visual appeared. 

“Temep-Dvinsu Hunith!” 

Two point four seconds ahead of the image, the caller’s voice transmitted. Its intonations conveyed recognition and conviviality. What true sentiments the speaker held about her, Hunith could not say. When Supreme Commander N’Vol appeared on screen, his expression communicated nothing. 

Hunith ensured that her face was equally unreadable. It was unfortunate that memory could not be disciplined in the same way. Immediately she had recall of their last meeting -- a routine negotiation required by treaty, to discuss issues arising from the administration of the Neutral Zone. 

That had been three years ago, when Romulans did not outnumber Vulcans. 

“Supreme Commander,” she replied. “I was assured this call originated from New Vulcan. Have you recently emigrated?” 

N’Vol showed amusement with a tight smile and shift of gaze off camera. 

“I suppose, when I am an old man, peace and quiet will be just reward for years of military service. I might well consider retirement to some _small, obscure_ colony, provided I could build a suitable home.” 

His eyes switched back, checking her reaction. 

“As it is,” he said, “I must make do with my ship.” 

“In that case, I presume the Empire has developed an ability to mimic our subspace signatures,” she said, hoping her guess was correct. 

“No, no, Hunith. The sender of this transmission is on New Vulcan. They simply do not realise their channel has been compromised. I can access the frequencies they do not require, since most of your messages travel short distances, from one office to another within the Council Hall.” 

Hunith took a single step forward, to make herself seem larger in whatever display N’Vol used. That, combined with a taciturn manner, was all she could do to match his implied threat. 

“Why tell me this? Now that I know, it would be a simple matter to trace the call and disable that channel.” 

“Because the actual level of compromise is greater than I am prepared to reveal. Repair might require a more comprehensive shut down, and now would not be the best time, would it?” 

Hunith could hear Molkom. His consciousness was hers, and his was emerging slowly from sleep. 

“And yet there must be another purpose for contacting me,” she said to the Commander. “There must be something more you wish to achieve by giving away this secret, unless what you say about compromise is untrue. Perhaps you bluff.” 

“Obviously,” N’Vol said, “I called to wish you success in your talks with the Xindi and Andorians.” 

Hunith weighed all his words, spoken and unspoken. That he knew about the talks was not evidence of a communications breach. Federation intelligence indicated this much had probably leaked out. That he knew she was involved, as well as her present location …. 

N’Vol continued speaking. 

“I am also under orders to convey the misgivings of the Empire. The Federation has sustained two severe blows to its power – Ambassador Spock’s irresponsible use of red matter in his own timeline and Admiral Marcus’ irresponsible revival of a genetically engineered Terran. Starfleet has been forced to move its headquarters from San Francisco -- unprecedented!” 

Hunith saw what her baby son could see, now he was awake. He had become more anxious, since they removed him from familiar surroundings. She sent him a gentle wave of reassurance. 

“The Xindi and Andorians,” N’Vol went on, “will assess that damage to the Federation’s prestige, not to mention its fleet, and present their demands accordingly.” 

Hunith nodded once, an acknowledgment of fact. She said, “The Empire would rather we had chosen them to represent our interests.” 

“I have always been frank with you about the desire for reunification,” N’Vol said. 

“You have. But you seem to believe Vulcan loyalty is mercenary, like your own, and would shift at the slightest sign of disadvantage.” 

“Slightest? Councillor, eighty-seven percent of the Federation’s fleet and personnel were destroyed in the Battle of Vulcan. It is still rebuilding. Development of advanced warp technology has been curtailed. The Klingon and Romulan empires have been entirely unaffected, unless you count the skirmish on Qonos, which I do not.” 

Up to that point, Molkom had been content with psi contact alone. Hunith was certain he could not penetrate the mental defences concealing her anxieties. New Vulcan was so small, so powerless. The Romulan fleet could clear the settlement in a single sweep, carry them away and how much would the Federation risk, how much _could_ it risk, for a few thousand colonists? Even Vulcans residing on Earth would advise caution, in the circumstances. 

From his crib, the baby whimpered as if he understood everything. 

It was a terrible moment to hear the door open to her quarters, a terrible moment to hear Pel enter the room.

“ _Ezyet_ , I believe I would prefer to be a starship engineer, rather than pilot a Sela --,”

Abrupt silence. Hunith dared no words or movement. She knew the xenocultural content of her niece’s education. Pel would have considerable knowledge of the Empire, of its history, of the physiology, language and customs of its people. But had she ever seen a Romulan? 

N’Vol turned his head, to give Pel his full attention. 

“This must be your late brother’s granddaughter,” he said, “the one whose school reports have greatly impressed me.” 

Through their bond, Hunith cautioned her niece. _Beware. Show no reaction to his words. Deception is their tactic to cultivate fear; he may not know what he claims to know._

“’A particularly precocious intelligence’,” the Supreme Commander seemed to read from PADD on his desk. “’Pel is most satisfied when required to put new information to use as soon as it is received, while confronted with novel situations or surroundings’.” 

A verbatim recital from the report Hunith had received and read over breakfast. Now there was no question of deception, only the unaskable one about what the Empire would do with all their information. 

She gave Pel new instructions. _Molkom is anxious. Attend to him. I would prefer he did not cry out and attract this Romulan’s interest._ And with the request she conveyed a little emotion, a sliver of how it felt to be completely exposed to a deadly enemy. 

Pel performed well. She tipped her head to N’Vol, turned stiffly and left the room. And she had presence of mind enough to do her own tactical thinking. 

_I will carry him out of our quarters, ezyet. That will guarantee he is neither heard nor seen. Should I alert anyone?_

_Yes. Find Lietenant Commander Chalmers. Tell her I must speak with the captain as soon as possible._

When N’Vol spoke next, he spoke louder. He looked directly at Hunith, but was not addressing her. 

“Such a gifted child. You know, the Empire was prepared to build a city for Vulcan survivors on Romulus, and heal the wounds from so many severed bonds by giving you immediate community. Think of that. Think of the resources, the opportunities. You will excuse the weakness of Romulan emotionalism, but I feel for Pel. I have a grandson her age -- one we have not yet bonded.” 

When the transmission ended, Hunith took advantage of her solitude. She closed her eyes. She measured the rhythm of her breaths and exercised deliberate alteration. 

Waiting for Pel to return, she visited memories of those lost to both of them. There had been five generations: Hunith’s grandfather, her parents, her sisters Lanorith and Serrin, brothers Ton and Sunak, along with their respective bondmates, twelve children and their bondmates, eleven grandchildren. Pel had been the ninth of these. The fifth, Pel’s older brother Sponen, graduated from the Science Academy fifty-three days before the Destruction. The eleventh, Pel’s younger brother Lovid, had not reached his second birthday. 

Lastly, Hunith remembered her wife T’Mannis. The recall of her voice was enough to settle the internal storm created by Supreme Commander N’Vol. Hunith exchanged fear and frustration for the ache of loss, which had become such a constant presence in her psyche it seemed something of a companion itself. 

* * *

Having spent fifteen hours at _O Mosteiro_ , Spock believed they had a grasp of its straightforward facilities. 

Interior doors led off from either side of the farmhouse kitchen. Through the south facing door they discovered space partitioned by a curtain to serve as sleeping areas. Nyota believed the two brass bedframes were a considerable age, though the mattresses and covers seemed new. There was no decoration save the painted shutters to cover a window. Furniture was minimal -- a chest of drawers, wheel mounted clothes rail, and one bench. 

The north facing room had large, screened windows which looked out on the enclosure gate and the spot where Ramon had parked. Some attempt at aesthetic appeal had been made with this interior space. A cluster of framed prints hung on one wall alongside a bookcase. White cloths with vivid red embroidery had been draped over the backrests of three wicker chairs. 

Of the two outbuildings, one served as a lavatory. They inspected the second after breakfast (Nyota knew how to operate the specialised container for brewing coffee, and he was able to cook an acceptable pottage with rice and vegetables over the stove’s hot plate). A taller structure than the house, the second outbuilding had a broad entrance that reminded Spock of a shuttle hangar. A number of distinct but unfamiliar odours emanated from the interior. 

Nyota entered first. She took two steps before she seemed to stop short and said, “Hello,” although he could not see anyone to greet. 

“I guess this must be our mode of transport,” she said. 

As he entered, he realised she had not encountered a person but a creature. Its features were indistinct in shadow but Spock felt confident the species was equine. Domestic varieties were kept in stables, as this one was. He remained uncertain of the breed. 

“ _Mulo_ ...,” Nyota said, and then pointed to the opposite corner of the building. “... _e cabriolé_.” 

Spock interpreted _cabriolé_ to mean the two-wheeled vehicle with integral awning, tipped to rest its weight on long front shafts. He could not say what Portuguese or Standard vocabulary might apply to the components which were suspended from the walls around it. 

“I have seen _sehlats_ harnessed to pull freight,” he remarked. “But there seems little to compare between the equipment used in that arrangement and this one.” 

“I have no better idea than you,” Nyota said. “But someone must. Someone must come here to look after the mule.” 

Spock agreed. 

They left the stable, made a circuit of the property along its perimeter. Then they left through the enclosure gates. It was possible to continue climbing; the level height on which _O Mosteiro_ stood was a lesser summit among many higher, verdant peaks. By eleven hundred hours local time they had reached the top of the nearest mountain that rose over the farmhouse. 

The view invited photographs, which they had means to take. 

It was imperative to keep their PADDs with them at all times. Before retiring the night before, they each sent a message to Vice Admiral Elizabete Nascimento. Nyota feigned attendance at the _Legião_ school Festa Junina celebrations. Spock requested a day’s leave to meet his father in São Paulo. Starfleet security protocol for covert missions required nonsensical contacts like these. Nascimento would interpret them as confirmation that her arrangements had gone to plan, and that her agents were ready to receive their next instructions. 

They were descending the mountain, forty-five meters from the enclosure gates, when Nyota received her reply. They stopped walking so that she could read. 

Spock watched her squint, frown, scroll to the top of her display and remark, “That can’t be right.” 

“May I ask --,” 

“It’s a schedule for tomorrow, a list of meetings back at Headquarters.” 

Before Spock could comment, he received a message of his own. Scanning the text quickly, he said, "I propose that your instructions are comparatively plausible." 

“Really?” Nyota replied. “I suppose I could be transported to São José. But that seems crazy, after all the trouble taken to get me way out here. What’s your message?” 

“I also have a schedule. Feeding times.” 

“Feeding times?” 

“Also a regime for sleep. And a list titled ‘Essential Supplies’ which includes diapers, sterilising tablets and formula bottles.” 

“What is Starfleet security protocol for situations where you send a nonsense message and then get one back?” 

Spock shook his head. “I know of none.” 

There was no benefit in further speculation. They finished their walk, opened and shut the perimeter gates, used the key device to unlock the farmhouse door. 

Nyota, the first one inside, gasped and exclaimed, “Elizabete!” 

Spock stepped into the kitchen and saw the Vice Admiral. She was seated at their table. 

“Commander,” she said. And without further preamble or ceremony, she got out of her chair and approached him, holding out the infant she carried in her arms. 

* * *

The baby was Vulcan. Its ear points, still soft, folded in different directions but there was no mistaking. 

Nyota did not know what to say. Nor did Spock, it seemed. Probably the only reason he accepted the blanketed bundle was because it was handed to him by a senior officer. 

Elizabete said, “I cannot stay longer, Commander. You will receive further instructions in the same encryption format you have already received. The other child --,” 

_Other_ child?

Nascimento pointed in the direction of the north facing side of the house. “-- is ten years old. Her name is Pel, and her aunt tells me she has separation issues. I imagine that will come as no surprise.” 

Elizabete took out her communicator, opened it. 

“Nascimento to Nozomu ...,” 

“ _Nozomu here, sir_ ,” came the response. 

The Vice-Admiral sidestepped, and slipped her arm around Nyota’s shoulders. 

“Two to beam up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WISH I could promise more chapters, like you wouldn't believe, especially because I have ended this one at such a cliffhanger. I am growing fond of Pel and little Molkom.
> 
> If I am not able to post anything more this year, I wish everyone who reads this better things for 2021.


	7. Suddenly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for a glossary of Portuguese terms used in this chapter

Perhaps the sudden brilliance or unusual sound of the transporter beam disturbed the sleeping child. It stirred. Its eyes opened and saw Spock’s eyes. Then Vulcan curiosity held at bay all other questions and concerns. Spock studied the baby and it seemed to study him. 

This interlude lasted thirty-seven seconds. In that time Spock summoned memories of cousins once, twice and three times removed, memories of forming familial psi bonds with them in the first months after their birth. These were uplifting experiences. The very young had yielding, open minds and no preconceptions; they accepted Spock as readily as they did their other relatives. As the bonds grew older, Spock would perceive a change. 

The baby in his arms stirred again. Its eyes rolled and shifted as if it searched for something or someone. A crease appeared in the skin between its eyebrows and it made a sound. Then it made another. When tension pulled the depressor muscles on either side of its mouth, and the tone of its third noise indicated distress, Spock responded as any Vulcan would, adjusting his hold so that he carried the baby with one arm. Using the fingers on his free hand, he landed lightly on the child’s meld points. 

Instantly he saw two faces, those individuals the baby sought. Spock recognised Hunith, life member of the Vulcan High Council, appointed the same year he reached his fifth birthday. The bond between councillor and infant had that quality only achieved _in utero_ , establishing Hunith as the baby’s biological mother. 

The second face was also female, an older child. The baby’s mind called for her insistently. 

_– Pel! Pel! Pel! Pel!-_

Soothing thoughts came from the maternal psi link. That was all. Spock used the meld to make his own impression on the infant, gentle assurance that it had his attention and intent to respond to its needs. His efforts were rewarded; the baby felt no compulsion to make more sounds and relaxed its frown. It persisted only in calling the other child. 

_-Pel! Pel … Pel?-_

Spock waited. He turned his head to watch the door which led through to the space Nyota had designated ‘the family room’ as a joke. Another fifty-eight seconds passed. The baby persisted with its calling throughout, and Spock perceived how determined it was, how it had needed to be determined when making contact with Pel in the past. 

“ _We will find her_ ,” he told the infant in Vulcan. With that he ended the meld and carried the baby into the now aptly named family room. 

* * *

Pel knelt behind the supply crates which had beamed down from the USS Nozomu. This location could not be called a hiding place. The containers were stacked in the centre of the shabby interior where Pel had also been transported. There was sufficient space for anyone to circle the containers and spot her. When Vice Admiral Nascimento had moved into the other room, Pel considered using some crates to block her way back in. But self-discipline would not allow that much irrationality. Pel could not decide whether it was equally irrational to remain where she was, easy to find, hearing but ignoring the persistent calls from Molkom. 

_“You are Pel, I presume.”_

Pel looked up. This individual must be the Starfleet officer her great aunt had described, in as much detail as could be communicated in the interval between Pel stepping onto the transporter platform and having her molecules energised. 

_“You are Commander Spock,”_ Pel replied. 

Commander Spock held Molkom. He lifted and turned the baby so that it could see her. 

_“Is there a reason why you will not respond to your younger sibling?”_

Molkom responded to the sight of Pel with emotional vocalisation and wriggling. 

_“He is not my sibling.”_

_“Your psi bond has qualities consistent with an immediate familial relationship.”_

This statement of fact required no response. 

_“That I have incorrectly assessed the nature of that relationship does not explain why you ignore the baby’s attempts to gain your attention.”_

Pel breathed in and held the air in her lungs. She noted the qualities of several smells, Terran smells, unknown smells. Could one of them be the scent of vegetation? Her learning bowl had images of Terra, but they did not prepare her for the shock of green. The view through the windows of this room made her dizzy at first. She had accustomed herself by looking away, then looking back, looking away, looking back --, 

“Pel.” 

The Commander knew nothing about her. If not for Molkom’s thoughts to inform him, would he know her name? He knew nothing about her siblings. They were memories -- Sponen had just taught her to ride a hoverbike and navigate at night by the stars. Lovid had been as small as Molkom, but never insisted on her proximity. She chose when to find him, and whenever she would lift him out of his crib his lips would part and their bond would fill with his surprise and joy. _Ko-mekh_ said he did not react as strongly to anyone else …, 

“Pel.” 

_Ko-mekh_. 

The Commander’s eyes no longer looked down on her. He was kneeling and his face was level with hers. Molkom stretched out his arms and agitated their bond in the fashion he had adopted to ask Pel to hold him, to connect their minds. But she would not show him anything in her mind now. If she could make it so, she would choose never to show it to herself. 

The Commander’s eyes were striking. The irises were dark brown, a shade reminding her of the robes _ezhet_ Hunith wore to council sessions. The lashes were dark and the sockets set deep under a prominent brow ridge. But more than these features, Pel perceived something she did not see when she looked into the eyes of other adult Vulcans. She saw feeling. That made her feel in turn, more emotions in addition to those caused by memory. The combination was difficult to process. 

To make the task easier, Pel turned around and faced the storage crates instead. 

* * *

A transporter beam breaks up molecules, reassembles them somewhere else. 

What thoughts an individual has, at the moment of breaking up, are also displaced. Nyota became herself again, body and mind, inside the transportation room of a starship. Her body was fine, as she expected it would be. Her thoughts were an unholy muddle of questions and doubts and a keen little pain, like a pinch, the result of being suddenly separated from Spock. 

A Starfleet lieutenant operated the transporter controls. A Starfleet captain stood at the platform edge to welcome her and Vice Admiral Nascimento on board the USS Nozomu. No thinking was needed for Nyota to fall into the habits of duty. All her questions and doubts filed themselves away as they followed the captain out of the room, into a turbolift, down three levels to the Nozomu’s shuttle deck. All her attention focussed on the present moment, observing and remaining alert for next orders. 

They approached a B Class shunter. The captain handed them over to security officers waiting outside the hatch. The officers ushered them into the craft, showed them their seats in the main hold and sat themselves in the shuttle cockpit. 

“Full shields up,” she heard one officer tell the other. 

Elizabete Nascimento chose that moment to reach across their adjoining chairs and pat Nyota’s arm. 

“We will be one of a convoy. Eleven shunters will launch simultaneously,” she said. 

When take-off happened, Nyota watched the cockpit viewscreen and counted the other shuttles she could see in the star-studded darkness. 

“May I ask why?” 

“ _Você pode_ ,” Elizabete said, “but you must settle for the answer you get. Remember your journey yesterday. We are creating a lot of movements to disguise the most important one.” 

Nyota nodded. For a while the shunters flew in formation, heading towards Earth. Their pilots made frequent course adjustments and the same three shuttles remained in their view. When the altitude readings registered fifty-five kilometers from the planet’s surface the order came to break up, and they lost sight of any other craft. 

As if she knew what Nyota was thinking, Elizabete said, “All of them will double back and meet us, eventually. Aren’t you curious about your new assignment?” 

“How much curiosity am I allowed?” Nyota asked. 

The Vice Admiral laughed with her lips trapped by her teeth, and when she got her amusement under control she said, “Ah! _Eu amo um jogo de adivinhação_. But all games must end. I have been informed that you are already acquainted with councillor Hunith of New Vulcan.” 

Acquainted. What an interesting way to describe it. Nyota’s recalled the first meeting with Hunith, if it could be called a meeting. With help from the katra of T’Shin, Nyota interrupted the High Council during a private session and defeated Lelar in a _kal-i-fee_ challenge. Victory allowed her to save Spock from a bond without affection. But the Council never fully accepted the result. Hunith represented those who objected, and took their case to T’Pau on Mount Seleya. 

Nascimento probably did not know any of that. She had continued to speak while Nyota had been remembering. 

“Hunith will lead New Vulcan’s territory negotiations with the Xindi and Andorians. I know you have been keeping an eye on transmissions about the talks. From today your security clearance has been elevated, which should make your listening more interesting. And make you more useful to the councillor. You will be her personal aide for the duration of her stay on Earth.” 

For a moment, Nyota’s eyes opened wider. The Vice Admiral did not appear to notice. 

* * *

Not as bad as expected. Len got roll call duty, posted on the tarmac outside the hovercoach hatch. He had accounted for all fifty-two students who were now on board, plus six of the seven adult supervisors. 

The kids did remind him of Joanna. He had expected that to be a problem, but they were all too much like themselves, and there wasn’t time to dwell on the daughter who was far away when the students arrived and filled that deserted, early morning parking lot with young exuberance. He found himself smiling without making the effort, checking the group for anyone who seemed subdued or did not mix with the others. He introduced himself to those and confirmed what even his ex-wife would admit, that he was the one with a talent for relating to children. 

Carol Marcus was inside the coach, handing out replicated breakfast packs. She came down the hatch steps holding one in each hand. 

“For you,” she said, offering him the pack in her right hand. “Where’s Captain Kirk?” 

“Yasmin de Freitas called him to an urgent meeting,” Len replied. He nodded when he saw Carol frown. “My thoughts exactly. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until after this trip?” 

“You seem to be enjoying yourself.” 

“Gotta admit,” he said, “this assignment is growing on me.” 

“Understatement, Doctor McCoy. You are some kind of kid magnet. Did you not notice the little audience that gathered round while you were telling Fabiana Silva that story about the flood you caused in the mess hall on Space Station Honshu?” 

McCoy shrugged. Carol nudged his shoulder with the left-hand breakfast pack. 

“You remind me of Brenda Marionek.” 

“Who?” Len asked. 

“My second year chemistry professor,” Carol explained. “She was phenomenal. Nobody dozed off in her lectures, no matter how late they’d been up the night before. She made molecular geometry mesmerising, and students would invent timetable conflicts so they could be registered for her classes. I bet that’s the kind of teacher you will be.” 

He had to stop himself shifting his weight from foot to foot. He didn’t dare look at Marcus. He could feel the twinkle in his eyes. 

“Well,” he said, but had nothing else to say. 

It was the perfect time for a distraction. Jim Kirk came to his rescue, flying in on the seat of a Vespa hoverbike, sans helmet and wearing no impact protection. Len had a reason to distance himself from unfamiliar, pleasurable feelings and substitute the indignation with which he was much more comfortable. 

He strode to the spot where Jim landed the bike and caught him by the neck of his t-shirt. 

“Are you insane?!” he hissed in Kirk’s ear. 

“Bones,” Jim replied, “good morning.” 

“I did not save your ass so that you could risk life and limb joy-riding.” 

“Hey, you are mistaking me for that other Jim Kirk. De Freitas let me borrow this bike.” 

“Well good job setting a bad example in front of children.” 

Jim made a scoffing noise. “Turns out plenty of them disapprove of me already.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You wanted to know why De Freitas called me in so early. It’s because I had an interesting encounter with one of the students at the _Junina_ celebrations. Now there’s been a parental complaint.” 

“What the hell did you do?” 

“That doesn’t matter, Bones. What matters is that the kid is sitting on that coach right now. De Freitas felt he would enjoy his day more if I didn’t come along.” 

Len was not about to be brushed off so easily. “What did you do?” 

“What I did was already done before we came to São José.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“There’s plenty of time to talk after you get back. Why don't we catch a cab later? We'll get the driver to recommend a place that makes good _Quentão_. You said you’ve been wanting to try some.” 

Len shook his head. He was about to say more, but Carol Marcus stepped into the conversation. 

“Our driver wants to get going,” she said. 

She had a questioning look at the hand still gripping Jim's shirt. Len released his hold, gave Jim a companionable thump on the shoulder. 

“Sure,” he said at last, “sounds great. Send me a message – the coach is due back here by seven.” 

* * *

Bones saved his ass again. How many times was that now? 

Jim waved goodbye as the coach pulled out of the parking lot. He wondered if Carol Marcus was still wearing that same skeptical face, because she wasn’t visible through any of the windows. Jim would make sure she knew the truth, eventually. For now she would have to accept McCoy’s explanation, invented on the spot, that Vice Admiral Nascimento had suddenly got a new, short-term assignment which only the captain of the USS Enterprise could accomplish. 

Jim stayed where he was until the coach turned onto the road and disappeared between buildings. Then he opened the storage compartment under the hoverbike seat, pulled out his PADD, opened his contact list and began to scroll through the entries. 

_Chekov, Pavel_ – the display told him Chekov’s connection had its options set for ‘Contact unavailable for conversation’, ‘Can accept messages only’ and ‘Response time uncertain’. Jim frowned. Suppose there had to be a first time for everything, but Pavel was usually the opposite of elusive. Jim carried on scrolling. 

_Scott, Montgomery_ – options set for ‘Delayed pick up likely’. Jim pictured Scotty’s PADD resting in a dedicated slot in his tool kit, and Scotty with his head underneath a workstation or deep inside a new intermix chamber, inspecting the construction. His Chief Engineer was ingenious enough to figure out some way Jim could lend a hand with the Enterprise rebuild. But he probably preferred a longer commitment. 

_Sulu, Hikaru_ – options set for ‘Available now’. Available to gush, Jim thought, and immediately reprimanded himself. Becoming a father _was_ a big deal, though how the idea was inspired by so much death and destruction Jim could not grasp. Or maybe it just reminded Jim too much of the fact that he was a survivor and his second birth, like his first, was made possible because other people sacrificed themselves. 

No, none of these guys could help distract him from the fact he’d been kicked off the Legião school assignment or the embarrassment when Vice Admiral Nascimento said no, she would not intervene in his case. She had the nerve to suggest he might enjoy a study break instead. 

He needed to kill a day or two, enough time for Deon Palmer to calm down. Then he could suggest a meeting with Deon’s mother and Yasmin De Freitas to talk things through. It would be fine. 

Before scrolling back through the list of contacts, Jim hesitated. There was a housekeeping function that would clear out the names of anyone deceased and save him the discomfort of doing that himself. He set it to run. It accomplished the task in the time it took to tap his foot to his own singing, an energetic track called _Sequestrar Meu Coração_ that kept suggesting itself on his music feed. He finally heard it over speakers in the waiting room outside Yasmin De Freitas’ office. 

The housekeeping function announced it had finished with a ping. Jim checked the screen and saw that the application also gave him recommended deletions, numbers he once used frequently which had suddenly gone uncalled and stayed uncalled. The list contained two names. 

Jim shook his head. He looked up his call history, went back twelve months, and could not deny that something had changed. He chose the first name on list purely because it was first, checked the availability options, and asked the comms application to put him through. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Portuguese terms used in this chapter 
> 
> Você pode – You may  
> Eu amo um jogo de adivinhação - I love a guessing game  
> Sequestrar Meu Coração - Kidnap My Heart


End file.
